


interstellar overdrive

by pinkmaggit



Category: Megadeth, Metallica
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Space, Assassination, Eventual Relationships, M/M, Minor Violence, Older Man/Younger Man, On the Run, Science Fiction, Slow Burn, Space Pirates, accidental slutty clothing choices, jason cant catch a break, lighthearted interrogation and coffee, rob the ultimate wingman, rope bondage: not the sexy kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27388120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkmaggit/pseuds/pinkmaggit
Summary: Jason is the young, popular High Command of Navvi, a planet renowned for its peacekeeping role in intergalactic politics. Navvi itself is on the forefront of technological innovation, seen as a role model for development in conjunction with the ecological landscape.But with foul play abound, the young High Command disappears one morning, presumed to be kidnapped. A neutral planet, Amalthea, is blamed for Jason’s disappearance, and tensions between Navvi and an aggressive, politically dominant Tarvos fester, threatening intergalactic warfare.Meanwhile, James is the second-in-command of a small group of Drifters, landing on Navvi for a night of debauchery after a successful smuggling mission. He's not expecting anything out of the ordinary, but in that cosmically unfortunate way the universe seems to often work, he gets anythingbutordinary. And when his one-night stand goes south, he's utterly unprepared for the shitstorm that he gets wrapped up in, much less the surprising silver lining to it all.+or, in no particular order: betrayal, gun fights, stolen ships, space prison, gambling, seedy nightclubs, alien politics, explosions, david bowie’s 1972 hit “moonage daydream”, and love.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Jason Newsted, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 47





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> oh man. lately ive had the urge to write a multi-chap, and that desire has coalesced into this mess here. this is absolutely because i have a weakness for gritty sci-fi and worldbuilding (which absolutely got out of hand ,,, oops !!)
> 
> anyways. im not gonna promise any updating schedule lol (i am a product of whims that come and go) and im taking this one as it comes,,, its def for fun and just to enjoy.
> 
> (for reference's sake, james + lars are circa '96, jason's circa '86)
> 
>  **edit** : ive got a lil document w/ some extra info for this au >[here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1joKBHcXX2yinJlatQ1lAphPI-0OZN4UNGI8xC8oq9o4/edit) which id recommend checkin out !! i put a lot of work into the worldbuilding, so it's got some (hopefully) neat stuff ,, i'll keep adding to it as the fic progresses !! 
> 
> hope u all like the ride !! enjoy ?? <3

Five hundred light years from the center of the Andromeda galaxy is a star, known colloquially as Proxima Astralis, catalogued in databases as PA-409. 

It burns with a white-blue light, borne from a cloud of cosmic gas millions of years ago, the coalescing of dust and debris bringing forth the explosion of light, nuclear fusion powering its shimmery, otherworldly beauty.

Proxima has nearly twenty different planets orbiting it, some heat-scorched and bone dry from the close proximity to its light, others far-flung, icy wastelands.

Nearly halfway to the farthest planet is a set of twins. The two planets orbit at varying intervals, one slightly faster than the other, nearly identical save for slight differences in climate and seasonal changes.

The farthermost one is a planet of forests and mountain ranges and fresh, pure water. Known as Navvi, it is a planet on the forefront of technological innovation, established on clean energy with gleaming cityscapes engineered in conjunction with the ecological landscape.

Navvi has long had a peacekeeping role in intergalactic politics, a tradition started thousands of years ago and upheld by the current High Command, a young leader established through democratic processes. It is a planet that cares for its people; one that prioritizes a communal outlook, one that ensures the needs of all are met. 

Sprawling cityscapes bear architectural marvels, engineered to last for hundreds of years, sustainably designed to pay homage to and accentuate the beauty of the natural landscape they are set among. The populations within its cities are immensely varied, aliens and humans and androids all living and working together. 

It’s a gorgeous planet, dark blue and shimmery with rings of crystallized debris. Stars glimmer, thousands of light years away, clustered brightly, blinking out of the black, velvety dark of the rest of the universe.

+

Within Navvi’s gravitational pull, a ship orbits slowly, thrusters engaged to keep it in steady drift. Smaller ships dart in and out of its hangars rapidly, blast doors sealing with metallic clangs, lights blinking along the hull.

Drifters aren’t uncommon around Navvi, after all, mostly lured to the planet by an intergalactically reputed nightlife and an abundance of clubs. 

The ship outside of Navvi’s atmosphere is no exception, and various little V-ships drop from the hangars to glide steadily towards the surface of the planet, streaming through clouds at terminal velocity. 

The sun glimmers on the horizon, early morning bringing a crisp chill, sky streaked orangey-yellow, rays of sunlight dancing across dark water.

One ship, all sleek black metal, roars as its blasters engage, wings unfolding and bringing it up into a screaming curve inches above the water of the lake surrounding Kaia, Navvi’s capital.

James guns the engine, tilting the controls and leading into a gentle arc, his ship streaking over the water fast enough to make it ripple and foam. 

_God_ , he's tired. Trust Lars to drag them all out to party the night before and then assign him a job first thing in the morning, way before anyone else is awake.

_Fuckin’ Lars._

He's got a couple shipments to pick up, some extra weapons stock and a dozen crates of food since they've just come off a job and are beginning to run low. 

Like, _seriously_ low. James is pretty sure he's never seen the cold storage as empty as it is now, and considering that they're mostly down to protein cubes and those awful dehydrated silver canisters of soup that Lars loves, James isn't sure what's actually worse: starving, or having to eat that shit. 

Least he doesn't have to choose anymore.

James eases his ship into a glide, two blasters disengaging as he slows down, the ports ahead lined along the shore coming into sight gradually. If he's lucky he can finish this all in under an hour, and then he should be able to catch a couple more hours of sleep before he has to report to the bridge. 

With luck, maybe he can push it to three. 

_Pretty fuckin’ unlikely,_ James thinks, easing his ship onto one of the landing pads along the docks, before he cuts the engine which lurches to a halt with a sharp, scratching growl. _All right, let's finish this shit up._

+

James’ comm blares on his bedside table. 

Groaning, James rolls over tiredly, letting out a sigh. He stares at the roof of his quarters, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

He got an extra hour and a half.

_Fuck._

Technically, he still has forty minutes before he has to report for morning tasks. Twenty, if he rolls over and snoozes for a little bit, although he might be cutting it close at that point.

His comm beeps again where it’s resting on his night-table. James grabs it clumsily, scanning over the illuminated screen, bright blue light harsh on his eyes.

There’s a couple missed notifications from Lars and one from Cliff. James scrolls through his messages quickly, skimming through data reports and buyer messages and biometric readings.

He nearly drops his comm when it buzzes sharply, a notification from Lars blinking slightly. James frowns down at the message.

_Controls. Meeting. 10 minutes._

“Shit,” James hisses, “ _Fuck.”_

Guess he’s not sleeping in today.

+

“Someone had fun last night.”

James rolls his eyes at Lars’ remark, throwing himself heavily into one of the chairs around the control room table, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Yeah, uh-huh,” he mumbles, “Whatever. We got something important to focus on right now, or can I go back to bed?”

The hickeys on his neck pang uncomfortably as he tries to rub at his sore shoulder. Least the Kazalorian girl he hooked up with last night let herself out before he woke up; James usually likes to avoid the awkward morning-afters, especially when the fuck wasn’t all that great.

 _Too much biting_ , he thinks, scowling as Lars makes an explicit gesture with his hands. 

Lars snorts a laugh, scrolling through the holo broadcasts, flicking between the channels rapidly with one hand and grabbing his mug of coffee with the other. 

“Actually, as a matter of fact we do,” Lars snickers, stirring creamer and sugar into his steaming mug lazily. “Considering I finally got the payment from Shorro from the last job, and I already updated your accounts, I figured we should celebrate, since we’re already by Navvi.”

Cliff grins around his cigarette. “Last night wasn't enough?” he questions, taking a slow drag and raising an eyebrow. “What, the cash just burning a hole in your pocket?”

“Duh.”

“Well, least we got paid,” Cliff says, “Fuckin’ Shorro, holding out on us. Motherfucker probably realized that if he kept stiffing us we’d kill ‘em.”

Lars nods, snickering quietly. He clicks on the glass panel of his holopad, changing the channel for the broadcasts. The announcer’s image crackles with static before solidifying, the sound cutting in moments later.

_“... Furthermore, there’s been greater development in the case of the 24-year old High Command of Navvi, who has reportedly been kidnapped as of yesterday morning…”_

“Wonder what happened to that kid,” Lars says slowly, his eyes drawn to the holographic shimmer of the projection. “What with the whole kidnapping-thing.”

“... _The official report details that the High Command was reported as missing around 03:00 hours, with further evidence appearing in terms of his destroyed living quarters…”_

Rob shrugs, dumping the old coffee grounds out of the pot before filling it with fresh water. “Kerry told me he thinks it’s all a ruse, that someone set ‘em up.”

“What, so they’re hoping to make a move in on Navvi?” Cliff asks, tapping the ash from his cigarette into his now-empty coffee mug. “I mean, I can see it. Or what, does he think that there’s some Hamlet-level backstabbing going on here?”

James huffs a laugh. “Tell Kerry he needs to lay off the grass,” he says glibly, snagging the creamer from Lars and stirring it into the mug Rob passes to him. “Don’t need him starting his little think-tank pet-project, or whatever.”

“ _... The official advisory court of Navvi has issued a billion-unit warrant for the return of Jason Newsted, provided he is…”_

There’s an image of the kid, displayed on the projection; he’s all soft curls and sharp eyes, youthful and sweet-looking, smiling gently, the slightest bit of a dimple visible. James swallows, eyes drawn to the photo, before the broadcast switches and the weather reports for Navvi begin to run.

Cliff whistles lowly. “Shit, that’s a lot of units,” he murmurs, stubbing his cigarette out, “Damn.”

“Guess they want their kid back pretty badly,” Rob says, sitting down at the table, grabbing for Cliff’s lighter. “I mean, not like Navvi doesn’t have the bank to pay it, anyways.”

“That’s for sure,” Lars hums, setting his mug back on the coaster. “Min gud, that’s a lot.”

It really is. A billion units? Fuck, they’d never have to work another day in their _lives_ (if you could call their profession work, James supposes). He can just about hear the gears turning in Lars’ head; he’s always been an opportunist, a quality that James would admit has probably guaranteed much of their success over the years.

And, well. James isn’t going to lie and say that he’s not interested, either. He wonders how much of the reasoning for their excursion on Navvi is just an elaborate set-up for their next mission that’ll be to find this poor kid.

As they say; money talks. 

_Bullshit walks,_ his mind helpfully fills in, and, well. You don’t get very far in this business _without_ a talent for bullshitting your way out of sticky situations.

“-and we might as well take our personal ships again, no sense bringing this one into the atmosphere if we don’t have to, wastes too much fuel,” Lars says, taking a final sip of his coffee, “Right. I’ve got business to attend to, as I’m sure you all do too. See you later tonight.”

Lars gives them all a lazy wave as he heads for the doors of the control room, his boots clicking heavily across the metal grates. The biolock beeps shrilly as he scans his palm, doors opening and closing behind him with a huff of air.

There’s a beat of silence, punctuated by James taking a sip of his coffee and Rob stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray in the middle of the table.

“Well, guess I’m gonna go,” Cliff sighs, tossing the butt of his cig into his mug before grabbing his jacket draped over the back of his chair. “I’ve gotta make sure the new recruits aren’t fucking shit up in the engines. Someone mixed up the fuel and drinking water line again and I’m gonna kill ‘em.”

James nods, following Cliff to the doors. “Make ‘em taste-test them first,” he says, adjusting the sleeves of his jumpsuit before shrugging out of the top half all together, tying the arms around his waist. “And I’ve got some issues with the wiring in the hangar, half the fuckin’ circuits got blown out.”

“Uh-huh, it's a fucking shitshow. See ya, Rob,” Cliff calls, and James tosses Rob a nod and gets a wave in return before the doors hiss shut behind them. “Oh, and James, you got a lil something-”

James swats Cliff’s outstretched finger away from his hickey-covered neck. “Fuck off,” he bites out, feeling his cheeks heat up as Cliff laughs. “Christ. Go fuck around in the engines, asshole.”

“Sure thing,” Cliff drawls, giving him a smirk, “Catch you later.”

James watches him head for the bridge, metal grates clanking under his boots. He takes a moment to check the display of his comm, scanning over his list of tasks for the morning- _air vents, circuits, problems with the hangar doors-_ before heading to the lifts.

 _Fuck_ , this job’s gonna kill him one day. 

+

As much as there is to dislike about being a Drifter, James wouldn’t ever trade it for the world.

And sure, it’s not an easy line of work. Morally reprehensible, maybe. Not for the faint-hearted. Definitely one that’s ensured he’s never going to space-heaven, or whatever.

 _Small price to pay_ , James thinks, carefully stripping the novo-rubber coating from the green wire between his fingers, tenderly pulling so as not to bend the delicate metal strands within. _Could be a hell of a lot worse._

Which is true; he could be fuckin’ rotting out on Doth Amar, or eaten by one of those massive sandworms on Hala. 

So, comparatively, being a space pirate is downright _peachy_.

Smuggler. Kidnapper. Assassin. Whatever pays the bills, y’know?

James rummages in his tool box for the pliers, sifting through screwdrivers and wrenches and various other knickknacks. _Christ, this needs to be cleaned too,_ he thinks, frowning as he pulls out his pliers, covered in engine grease which has gummed up and gone all sticky, tar-black. 

With a sigh, James turns back to the control panel he’s busy fixing, way up in the rafters of the hangars. 

Down below, he can make out the pin-pricks of his crewmates, patching up pitted scars in their ships from flak or hauling in new shipments of supplies, scurrying about like little ants over the shiny metal-plated floors. The constant cacophony of shouts and clangs and the roar of welding torches, utterly unbearable on the ground, is faint where he is, nearly a hundred feet in the air.

Lars likes to joke that he’d make a pretty good splat-mark on the ground if he fell; turns out most Drifters share a morbid sense of humor.

Comes with the territory, though. When your profession has a guarantee that any job you take could be your last, there’s a certain sense of freedom from being on the edge of death half the time. Coming close enough to touch the other side, to see _over_ that great divide? There’s not much that can scare you after that.

 _Balancing on the knife’s edge_ , Cliff would say. _Just don’t lose your balance the wrong way._

James grabs the grate panel, holding the screws between his lips as he tightens them in one-by-one. He’s still got some issues in the engine room to fix with wiring, and he also has to look at one of the faulty blast doors (which keeps disconnecting at random) before he can call it quits for the day.

Christ. Sometimes James feels like this ship is held together with novotape and sheer will.

+

Day-cycle comes to a lurching end; James tosses his grease-splattered jumpsuit onto the floor, stripping out of his sweat-stained underclothes.

He’s already sent off his diagnostic reports to Lars, filed away his completed checklist of tasks. James watches through the one window in his quarters- more of a porthole than anything- as Navvi comes into gradual view once again, like a little blue marble against star-studded black velvet.

Benefit of being a second-in-command; you actually _got_ a window in your quarters.

James washes up quickly, drying his hair with a towel before getting dressed. 

It’s not often they’re over in this pocket of Andromeda, especially not over by Navvi. Most Drifter clientele tend to live out on backwater planets, wastelands and nightmarishly-polluted hellholes, the sort inhabited by the scum of the galaxy. 

So ending up in Navvi’s orbit is a real treat, one James is sure they’re all eager enough to indulge in again. 

James pulls on his leather jacket, adjusting his ray gun on his belt before locking the doors to his quarters with the bioscanner, which flashes red before going dark. Then he heads for the hangars.

The halls are a flurry of movement; new recruits heading to their communal quarters, hauling gear and materials down to the engines, scurrying to the mess hall and laughing and talking wildly.

Descending the lift into the hangar, James spots Cliff and Lars already clustered near their ships. He makes his way over carefully, dodging crew mates directing a ship further back, waving their lights rapidly backwards. Rob’s spot is already empty in the hangars, fuel and water-line ports on the ground in the process of being flushed out.

“Fuckin’ about time, dickhead!”

James rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he says dryly, “Nice to see you too, Lars. We going?”

“Uh-huh, if you'd just move your stupid ass.”

Cliff snickers lowly, climbing the plank and disappearing into the hatch along the belly of his ship, all dark blue metal streaked with neon orange. It closes with a hiss of air, engines rumbling and lights flickering to life. 

Lars tosses him a wave, and James gives him the middle finger as he climbs into his own ship, Lars’ high-pitched laughter the last thing he hears before the hatch seals.

The grumble of engines outside turns into a deafening roar; James watches as Lars and Cliff's ships shoot down the runway and out the bay doors, twin streaks of red and blue, blasters glowing brightly as they careen towards Navvi.

James carefully starts up the engine of his ship. Runs his fingers along the dashboard, flicks switches with a practiced ease.

His ship roars to life, her headlights blinking and her wings unfolding. 

He'd nicknamed her Madonna, years and years ago after finding her in a scrapyard off on Celios, a rare all-black El Dorado model, worth a hefty price when in good condition. James can remember the months and months he'd spent slaving over her as if they were yesterday; can still feel the ache in his back from laying under the chassis and gutting the engine, the sting at spending thousands of units on rebuilding her.

As if he could’ve given up the opportunity; he’d never have let himself get over it if he hadn’t bought her, all those years ago.

James grins, tilting the controls and easing his ship into position. 

Then he guns it.

That rush he gets, streaming at breakneck spreads down the runway? It's _unmatched_. It’s the kind of high he could get drunk on, the kind that will always burn through his nerves and spark heady in his brain, the kind that utterly electrifies him.

So maybe he's an adrenaline junkie. Sue him.

James engages the extra blasters, adjusting the controls and forcing his ship into a screaming nosedive down towards Navvi, wings folded to allow for the plunge, the kind of steely-nerved daredevil antics that come with years of skill at the helm.

The burn as he enters Navvi’s atmosphere incites him.

He’s looking forward to some downtime, for once, the ability to just forget about his responsibilities for a little while. Maybe bring someone home. Maybe even get some enjoyable peace and _quiet_. 

_Yeah, right,_ James thinks with a tired laugh, _the day that happens, I’ll be able to breathe in space._

+

Of course, because the universe works in bizarre, often-unknown and unfortunate ways, there is no peace and quiet to be had.

James wouldn’t say he believes in karma. In his line of work? Christ, the amount of bad karma he’s probably racked up over the years could _kill_ him. And he’s no superstitious freak, although he’s never been one to willingly jinx himself, either.

But, y’know. The cosmic-forces-that-be seem to have strange, strange whims. 

Stranger than he could ever predict, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading !! hope ur all as excited as i am lmao. things will get cookin soon ;-)


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His advisors are in a plot to kill him, join forces with Tarvos, and invade Amalthea. _You know, just an average Tuesday_ , Jason thinks, _'cause why not, right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually had this chapter written before the first one LMAO so im just gonna post it  
> its jasons turn !! something small before shit starts to take off ;-)  
> (can u tell i have a weakness for baby jase ? )

Jason’s pretty sure he never could have predicted that at twenty-four years of age, he’d be hiding out in a little motel on the west-side of Kaia because his advisors were trying to fucking _kill_ him.

But, y’know. 

_Life’s a bitch_ , Jason thinks bitterly, sorting through the contents of his bag. He’d barely managed to grab anything in his haste, only snagging his fake ID and credit chit, along with a change of clothes from his closet at random. 

And that’s another thing; he can’t risk getting recognized. _At all_. Because as soon as someone logs his official credit chit, or if someone catches him in his official clothes, he’s as good as dead.

Least he’d _had_ these fake ones lying around; turns out not wanting people in all of your personal business pays off.

Jason sighs, stripping out of his dress pants and sweater quickly. Then he pulls the spare clothes out of his bag, grabbing the satin camisole and wiggling into it, fidgeting restlessly with the spaghetti straps. _Christ,_ of course he grabbed the sluttiest top he owns. Of _fucking_ course.

His plan right now is pretty much non-existent. Jason knows where he wants to go, of course; as soon as he’d found out about the whole plot, he’d immediately known where he’d at least be able to lay low for a while.

Out on Hala, a planet hundreds of thousands of light-years away, his old friend Kirk runs a ship-racing derby. It’s been a good few years since he’s seen Kirk, thanks to diplomatic meetings and intergalactic affairs and the like that tend to get in the way when you’re the leader of an entire planet, but Jason’s kept in contact with him, at least, so he knows where Kirk actually _is_.

That used to be a problem; Kirk would jump from planet to planet every few months, and frankly Jason was starting to have a really goddamn hard time catching up. Eventually he’d sent a letter that had basically said, although in much nicer words: _if you’re gonna keep moving, send me a letter first, asshole, so I at least know your address!_

The snail-mail was another thing. Kirk had some, well. _Illicit_ activities on the side (read: smuggling) that he was constantly paranoid about, worrying that any broad-wave communications would potentially expose his location to the authorities. 

_It would almost be funny_ , Jason thinks, _i_ _f_ _it wasn't such an inconvenience_.

Whatever.

Jason sighs, grabbing the leather pants shoved in the bottom of his bag, slipping into them carefully, doing up the zipper with shaky hands. 

He knows he has to get off this fucking planet, at least, but the _how_ is missing. At this point, the only thing keeping him going is sheer _panic_. 

That, and a simmering anger.

Jason chews his lip, pushing his old clothes into his bag. Then he opens the garbage chute in the bathroom, dropping it all down. 

_Shit._

Jason grabs the pack of cigarettes he’d bought at the corner store. Tearing at the packaging, he balls it all up, plastic crinkling loudly as he chucks it into the trash. Jason opens the top, pulling a cigarette free and placing it between his lips.

Flicking his lighter, he watches as the little flame sparks up. Hovers it by the end, snapping it shut as the cherry catches, taking a long, slow drag.

Jason props the bathroom window open, just enough so that the room won’t reek. Then he sits on the edge of the tub, grabbing for the cheap bottle of beer in the plastic bag, cracking the lid, holding his cig in between his fingers as he takes a slow pull.

At this point, it just looks like he’s feeling sorry for himself. Which isn’t necessarily untrue, considering the monumental amount of shit that’s gone down.

Chewing his lip, Jason fiddles with the label on the bottle, eyes drawn to the black and white tiles, stained yellow with age. 

He’d mostly found out about it all by accident; incidental eavesdropping, one might say. 

There had been a secret meeting in one of the court rooms, and he'd only managed to hear through the grates from his place in the archives, one floor directly above.

Jason hadn't told anyone where he was, had wanted some peace and quiet to do some late-night research.

His advisors had obviously believed he had gone home.

It had made him sick.

Two months ago, his parents had both died. _Heart attacks,_ the autopsies had proclaimed. And he'd taken it with nothing more than a rattled, shaky sob, face streaked with tears. And what else was he supposed to do? It was like the rug had been yanked out from beneath his feet, sent him crashing to the ground with how fast everything had suddenly changed.

Only twenty-four years of age, all alone. 

They'd been buried together in the cemetery closest to their home. He'd been left a will, simplistic enough; rights to the family home, some small possessions. 

Dust had begun to settle over everything. Caking thickly across the furniture, fuzzed over the mirrors and drifting over the hardwood floors. He hadn’t even had the time to begin to sort through everything else, all the boxes and mementos and keepsakes and cards kept in closets and bookshelves, tucked away in desk drawers and in dressers, folded up and carefully arranged, gently creased from loving hands.

How time consuming it all is, sifting through the remnants of a life, every little piece anchored to the person that once was there in some way or another, tangible little facets of a personality.

Like scattered puzzle pieces, all across the floor.

He couldn't afford to mope. He had responsibilities, after all. 

Jason had thrown himself back into work; he wonders if that had only been his attempt to drown out the hurt.

It's an inky-black mess deep in the pit of his stomach, one he's too afraid to touch.

With everything that had happened, it had absolutely blindsided him, overhearing his advisors- and how many there had been he couldn't even begin to tell, considering the voices were fairly muffled and distorted- talk of _poison_ , and _falsified reports_ , and _arranging for his own murder?_

His blood had gone cold. 

Jason takes an unsteady drag off his cigarette.

It makes his stomach churn, thinking about it; he'd been shell shocked. Frozen on his knees, ear pressed to the air vent, hanging onto every word as if he was a dying man hoping for salvation. 

He never could have guessed the motivations behind their actions.

_“And once we finish off that brat,” Saal had said- at least, Jason had been pretty sure it was Saal- “We’ll be able to move in with Tarvos on Amalthea. We’ll just have to make sure the broadcasts are on our side.”_

Christ. 

Tarvos has a reputation throughout the galaxy for being, for lack of a better word, hardly diplomatic. They’re the sort of planet to invade others on a whim; for resources, for strategic political gain, or for nothing more than prestige. 

Ruthless. Cold. Tyrants.

They’ve long been a thorn in the side of Navvi and her allies. Jason thinks, despondently, of his friends on Celios and Amalthea, two planets he wishes he could run to. But his advisors would be expecting that, anyways; he’d be snapped up before he could even blink.

So he’d gone home, sneaking out the fire escape connected to the archives. Taken what he could, as little as possible so as not to make it seem suspicious, and then systematically destroyed his bedroom to make it seem as if there had been a struggle. Knocked his furniture over, tore the drapes from their hangers, left shattered glass and ripped fabric across the floor.

And then he’d disappeared.

His advisors are in a plot to kill him, join forces with Tarvos, and invade Amalthea. _You know, just an average Tuesday_ , Jason thinks, _'cause why not, right?_

Jason takes another shaky drag.

All he knows at this point, really, is that the faster he can get out of here while they're all still confused about where he’s gone, the better his chances are of making it.

But there's still the problem of _how_ , exactly.

He could try and ask someone for a ride, maybe?

 _Yeah, right,_ his mind fills in, w _ho in their right mind is gonna waste the fuel to get to Hala from here on someone they don't even know? And as_ **_if_ ** _you won't get recognized in two seconds flat._

Sighing frustratedly, Jason taps the ash from his cigarette into the tub, taking another swig of beer.

Stowing away on a ship is out, too. He’ll get caught in no time, and then he’ll be six feet under. 

_They probably won’t even bury me,_ Jason thinks, _just fuckin’ dump me in the lake or some shit._

That makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. 

God, what the fuck is he gonna _do_?

He drops the butt of his cigarette to the tiles, stubbing it out with the thick sole of his leather boot. Throws his beer in the trash.

Then he wanders over to the bedroom nervously. The clock on the bedside table chimes; Jason startles in his panicked haze, glancing to the side. 

It's nine, late enough that the bars and clubs are beginning to open.

The holoscreen is on, news reporters talking quietly, volume low; but what he’s really drawn to is one of the people in the background, wearing a holomask.

They’re fairly common throughout the galaxy. Similar enough to a visor, they’re usually simple pieces of photonized-plastic, designed to evade facial detection, covering the eyes and nose. 

It sparks something in his brain. A what-if. A thought of maybe, just _maybe-_

 _Oh, god, that’ll get me arrested! I fuck up, I’m looking at years in prison and an absolute fucking shitshow in the broadcasts,_ Jason thinks, resting his chin in his hands, _there's gotta be something else…_

Chewing on his lip, Jason plays with a stand of hair nervously, watching but not really comprehending the news, words and meaning passing over him in his panicky haze. He sighs, scrubbing his eyes, alternating waves of hopelessness and fear and anger and nausea crashing over him. 

Then it’s like it all clears; the waters part, stilling, blood gone slow and thick in his veins.

_What do I have to lose?_

At worst, he ends up dead; a certainty, with every passing hour he wastes. But if it works, if he can pull it off…

If he manages it, then he’ll be out on Hala with Kirk, racing spaceships and knocking back Halaxian vodka, letting the drowsy heat of Hala’s two suns wash over him, worries dissipating entirely.

Jason snorts a laugh. He can fuckin’ dream, okay?

 _Shit, I’ve wasted enough time, let's just fucking do this,_ he thinks, _else I'm gonna pussy out._

Jason grabs his leather jacket off the bed, shrugging into it quickly, tucking his credit chit and ID into one of the pockets.

He’s gotta run a couple errands, first.

And then?

Then he’s getting off this goddamn planet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And usually Drifters aren’t exactly typical patrons at fancy nightclubs like this one, but they've got the money and Lars likes his vodka like he likes his jobs- _expensive_ \- so they're here. 
> 
> Whatever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alrightttttt !!!! we’re outta the frying pan and into the fire !!! shits gonna pick up from here so uh. get ready to hang on tight ;-) things r gonna get spicy LMAO
> 
> uhh what else. i listened to kerosene! by yves tumor on repeat while writing this chap. cause its like. exactly what i was going for mood-wise lol
> 
> (hmm i wonder who james picks up >;-)))) ahahahaha)

James takes a sip of his drink, swishing it around in his glass as he watches Lars attempt to sweet-talk some candy-pink Xree girl at the bar.

They’re in some swanky, high-end joint thanks to Lars’ insistence. It's the kind of club that has Astra Corps security at the doors, the kind with drinks that cost nearly ten units each, the kind with blue and green alien girls in latex and leather and bondage harnesses.

 _Christ_ , James thinks, internally wincing as he checks his account tab on his comm. _I’m gonna blow half my paycheck just on booze at this rate!_

 _Fuck_.

The air is smoky and hazy, all warm and stifled, music pounding loudly through the speakers; it’s a sort of electronic, guitar-and-synth-heavy type of music, one Navvi is famous for thanks to a prolific music scene and a high-art sensibility ingrained in all their pursuits, whether it be fashion or architecture or film.

It’s absolutely the sort of scene Lars likes. Privately, James would admit that he doesn’t mind most of it, although he definitely misses the bars on Earth; it’s been nearly a year since they’ve visited, and James is itching to get back whenever he can.

Whenever he can catch a goddamn break, at least.

Racks of booze glitter like jewels in the club lights behind the bar. James watches the bartenders pour drinks, flipping and tossing their cocktail shakers back and forth to cheers from the crowds.

His intergalactic translator chitters with pieces of conversation, clipped and crackly. They’re a must-have; considering that James is pretty sure there’s over five thousand different languages in this pocket of the galaxy alone, a universal means of communication allows for contact between pretty much anyone, save for some of the more remote dialects from distant planets.

James takes another sip of his drink. Watches the crowd, the glimmer of light over piercings and dyed hair and shimmery, high-end clothes.

And usually Drifters aren’t exactly typical patrons at fancy nightclubs like this one, but they've got the money and Lars likes his vodka like he likes his jobs- _expensive-_ so they're here. 

Whatever. 

They’ve sequestered themselves to a table towards the back of the club, out of the way of the Astra Corps officers standing beside the bathroom and the entrance, hololenses glimmering.

At least the scan-blocker on his wrist-piece is dependable enough for these sorts of occasional ventures; enough to make sure the gun under his jacket doesn’t set off the detectors, at least.

 _It’s decent enough for a night off_ , James thinks, snickering as the girl rolls her eyes when Lars stops motor-mouthing long enough to pound back a shot. _Least I’ve got entertainment._

Cliff disappeared to the other end of the bar- something about an android he knew- a while ago, having strategically timed his exit in between the Astra Corps rotation schedule.

The last thing any of them need is to get recognized. They’ve all got various bounties on their heads, racked up from consecutive hostages and thefts and what-have-you-nots, and it’d really put a damper on the night if the rest of the Astra Corps squadron showed up to try and bring them in. 

It’s a pretty-much guaranteed precursor to a bar fight, anyways, and for once James would just rather drink in peace.

Rob nudges his side with his elbow. It startles James out of his thoughts, and he turns to face Rob, distracted from the continual shitshow that is Lars’ attempt at flirting. 

“Check out leather pants at the bar,” Rob shouts over the music, tipping his bottle in the general direction, and James looks up, eyes scanning over blue and green Kazalorian girls and Centaxians and shimmery-plated androids, before-

 _Oh_.

His eyes trail down the kid’s figure slowly- probably in his mid-twenties, James figures- a sudden punch of heat striking him in the gut. 

Soft, huge curls, sharp jaw, sleek leather jacket, and the holy grail; that _ass_ , squeezed tight, leather pants absolutely _gleaming_ in the club lights. 

James watches, his mouth going dry as the kid takes a sip of his drink, licking his lips.

 _Holy fuck._ James is sure his cheeks have gone bright red.

Rob whistles slowly. 

“Yeah,” James manages, “Wonder if he’d be-”

“What, down to fuck?” Rob interjects, “Shit, probably. Nothing about that outfit screams _I’d-turn-down-hot-older-guy-dick_. Better buy him a drink.”

“ _Christ_ , fuck off, you’re as bad as Lars.”

Rob snorts a laugh. “C’mon tiger, go get ‘em,” he smirks, shoving James out of the booth. James nearly eats shit before he catches himself, giving Rob a scowl. “Yeah, yeah, you'll be thankin’ me later. Try to keep it down tonight, I gotta be up early tomorrow.”

James flips him off, letting Rob’s laughs fade away as he heads to the bar, pressing through the crowds of people.

As he gets closer and closer, though, his nerves start to prickle. The kid’s wearing a holomask- and a part of James is disappointed, because he really wanted to see his face- but he's got soft-looking lips, and a sharp curve to his jaw, and James is really, _really_ smitten.

James pushes up to the bar beside him, peeking out of the corner of his eyes. 

The kid’s fiddling with the label on his empty drink, obviously waiting for the bartender to come back his way. 

_Probably be waiting half the night, considering how busy it is,_ his mind fills in, _l_ _east you’ve still got some cash to buy him a drink._

James watches as the kid’s other hand plays with one of his earrings, silver and glimmery, rolling the hoop back and forth between the pads of his fingers, metal catching the club lights brightly. James’ eyes immediately zero in on his satiny little tank, spaghetti straps framing sharp, prominent collarbones, dark blue nearly black against pale skin.

_Fuck._

He’d be a liar if he’d say he didn't have a weakness for pretty aliens, especially in slutty clothes.

(And, well. Alien is a pretty loose category. Considering he’s from Earth, James thinks it’s fair enough to classify inhabitants of other planets as aliens. There’s a lot of variance, too, depending on species; some are entirely humanoid in appearance, like the kid he’s drooling over, but there’s a lot that aren’t anywhere close, either.)

Anyways. Here, now; James focuses his attention back on the pretty alien twink that he really, _really_ wants to see in his bed.

James swallows and clears his throat quietly. “Hey,” he starts, and then his mouth abruptly dries up as soon as the kid turns to look at him.

Even with the holomask, James can tell he’s hot. It makes his heart leap into his throat, which is absolutely fucking _bizarre_. He’s a Drifter; he shouldn't be stuttering over his words like a preteen anymore.

“Hey yourself,” the kid grins, “How’s it going?

James smiles a little. “Pretty good. Got a night off, y’know. In between jobs, and all that.”

“Between jobs- _oh_.”

James can feel the heat of those eyes, scanning over his figure before freezing on the Drifter insignia sewn onto the arm of his leather jacket.

Most Drifter divisions have their own distinctive insignia, although they’re fairly similar throughout the galaxy thanks mostly to placement and symbolism. Privately, James thinks their division- the 86th- has one of the better designs, anyways, with the crossed swords over a curled flame.

It’s striking, it’s simple, and it’s _absolutely_ a chick magnet. James wouldn’t say he subscribes to the whole “aura of danger” stereotype, but he’s definitely not gonna turn down the attention it gets him, either.

_Or a twink magnet. Both are good._

“So,” the kid says slowly, “What's a Drifter like you doing around these parts? Just passing through?”

James grins. “You could say that,” he murmurs, “And what’s someone as pretty as you doing all alone? 

“Night off. You got a name? Love to know. Bet it's something hot.”

 _Christ._ If that’s not a come-on, James would put his ship on the line and gamble against Lars for a year off bog-duty; and that’s not something he’d take lightly, considering Lars is _notorious_ for cheating. 

“James. You?”

“Mmm, just as good as I thought it would be. I’m Lacuna.”

_Lacuna. Damn._

“I like it,” James says honestly, feeling his cheeks go a little pink. “It fits. Really well.”

“Thanks, baby,” Lacuna smiles, pulling a package of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, along with a lighter. He flips the top open, pulling one out between his teeth, before offering the pack to James; murmuring a quiet _thanks_ , James takes one, watching as Lacuna lights his and takes a slow drag. “Here, let me.”

Then he holds his lighter out for James.

James leans in, waiting until the cherry catches, taking a heavy drag. 

The closeness makes James’ guts curl with want. From this close up, Lacuna’s lips are glimmery in the club lights, and James wants nothing more than to see them wrapped around his dick.

_God, he’s pretty._

Lacuna raises a hand for the bartender, once they’ve finally come back to this end of the bar. He orders a couple rounds of shots, and James watches as the bartender racks up the glasses, filling them quickly. There's the exchange of a credit chit, and then Lacuna grins, sliding him a couple.

“Oh- shit, you didn't have to do that,” James says dumbly, fingers wrapping around one of the chilled glasses, wet with condensation. “Thanks, baby.”

Lacuna grins, teeth flashing a brilliant white. “‘Course. On three?”

James huffs a laugh, tapping his glass against Lacuna’s before the two of them knock back their shots in quick succession.

“You come here often?”

Lacuna shakes his head, smoking languidly, tapping the ash from his cig into his empty glass. “Nah,” he says, “Usually don’t have the time.”

“Really?” James asks, “What with the whole outfit, I figured you were a regular and all.”

That gets a laugh, sweet and giggly. “You like it?” Lacuna teases, spinning around a little to show off. James’ eyes laser-focus on his ass in his leather pants, taking a final drag from his cig to try and hide the fact that he's blushing. “It's not often I get to wear this kind of stuff.”

“Well, shit, baby,” James says, stubbing his cig out in the ashtray clumsily, “Would've thought the complete opposite, considering how good you look in it. Pretty as hell.”

James watches as his cheeks go slightly pink. “Hey, pot, I’m kettle. You’re hot too,” Lacuna grins, all knife-sharp, taking a slow drag off his cigarette. “Lemme finish my cig, and then let’s have some fun.”

_Score._

Across the room, James can just barely see Rob in the booth, consoling Lars after getting rejected, the two of them nursing drinks as Rob goodnaturedly pats Lars on the shoulder.

 _Poor motherfucker,_ James thinks, before inwardly grinning. _Least I’m gonna get laid tonight._

And when Lacuna stubs his cig out, grabs his hand and drags him out to dance, all James can do is grin and follow.

_Oh yeah, definitely getting laid._

+

Dancing soon enough devolves to making out and grinding against each other, the stifling warmth of the dance floor enveloping them where they’re pressed together, music thrumming through their bones.

It’s heavy, hot, overwhelmingly _good_.

He’s missed this, that closeness and warmth of bodies pressed together. They were out in the middle of nowhere for the past couple of months on a smuggling job, with absolutely nothing in the way of bars or clubs _anywhere_ nearby.

So it shocks him all over again, how much he’s missed it all, like electricity zipping through his nerves at the heat of Lacuna’s hands around his shoulders, leather pants all sleek and soft as he grinds his hips down against James’.

James pulls Lacuna in a little closer with one hand at the small of his back, his other hand dipping down to cup his ass.

That gets a pleased hum against his lips, and Lacuna teasingly bites along his bottom lip before kissing him sloppily again, their breaths intermingling.

“You got a ship, baby?” Lacuna murmurs suddenly. It snaps James out of his haze, his heart thudding hard against his ribs. “I mean, not that I’m adverse to fucking in the bathrooms. But it's _way_ more fun in private, y’know?”

 _Oh my god,_ **_fuck_ ** _yeah._

James nods. “Yeah, baby, lemme take you home,” he says, grinning as Lacuna laughs, hooking his fingers in James’ belt loops teasingly. “Treat you right.”

“Mmm, yeah,” Lacuna grins, “Lead the way, baby.”

+

Honestly?

James is a _little_ surprised he managed to pull so easily. Not to say that he _can't_ get it; he's pretty fucking good. It’s just been a while, and to say that James was getting a little tired of only having his right hand for company by the end of their job would be an understatement of cosmic proportions.

There’s only so much jacking off in the showers he can take, anyways.

At least the walk to the docks hadn't been too far: he'd spent the entire trip with his arm around Lacuna, pulling him close, hand tucked in his back pocket, his guts twisting with heat as Lacuna's hands had wandered around his waistband, dipping lower to tease him. 

_Fucking Christ._

At this point, James is pretty sure that he's gonna come in his jeans like a teenager.

 _Fuck,_ his mind fills in, _f_ _ocus, dipshit!_

Lacuna’s hands pull James down into a sloppy kiss, and James cups the back of his neck, the two of them all tangled up, stumbling clumsily through the doorway, pressed against each other as they careen towards the bed.

James breaks the kiss and drops down onto the bed, reaching for the light switch on the control panel tucked beside the headboard. 

“Wait- keep the lights off,” Lacuna whispers, “It’s better like that.”

James blinks dumbly. “Oh- okay, baby, sure,” he says, stumbling over his words in his daze. “Sure thing.”

Like he needs to ask twice; at this point, James is pretty sure he’d launch himself out the airlock if Lacuna asked him to.

James sits back against the headboard, watching as Lacuna takes his holomask off slowly, setting it on the bedside table. 

There’s only the slightest illumination from the skylight in his cabin. James can just make out the soft curve of a cheek, the sharp line of lips, the gentle flutter of eyelashes.

Then Lacuna climbs up onto the bed, kneeling right in between James’ spread legs.

The breath catches in James’ throat at those little hands gripping his thighs tight, a groan eking out as they slip up further to play along his waistband.

“Can I suck your dick?”

It’s like the clouds part and angels begin to sing; James swears he can distantly hear the heavenly chorus above him.

_Goddamn._

James nods unsteadily, biting his lip as Lacuna’s fingers work the button of his pants open, heat twisting in his guts as Lacuna pulls the zipper down, enough to expose the bulge in his boxers in between the flaps. 

“Gonna take ‘em off?” Lacuna laughs softly, and James startles, wiggling his pants down his legs, kicking them off clumsily, his boxers and shirt quickly following. He watches as Lacuna strips down, curves of slight muscle and bone visible in the dim light.

James finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that he could see Lacuna’s face properly; it’s utterly tantalizing, because he's _gorgeous_. But James is no asshole, and he’s happy enough to languish in relative anonymity if it means he's gonna get his dick sucked, after all.

He groans as Lacuna spreads his knees, sprawled on his stomach in the vee of James’ legs, before James has to choke back a low moan when Lacuna’s hand slides around his dick. 

_Oh, fuck_.

Lacuna works his hand up and down slowly, rubbing his thumb over the head and smoothing through the slick precum. He laves his tongue over the slit, and James’ breaths go shuddery, hips twitching with his desire to thrust forwards into that hot, wet heat.

Then his braincells swiftly dissipate as Lacuna wraps his lips around his dick, right under the head. 

“Oh, shit,” James groans, “Yeah- _fuck-_ ”

Lacuna hums softly, working himself down slowly, letting more and more of James’ dick slip between his stretched lips. James feels his back arch at the warmth of Lacuna’s mouth, eyelashes fluttering as his cock bumps the back of Lacuna’s throat.

Then Lacuna moans, drooling all down his chin as he starts to suck hard, fucking his mouth on James’ dick, bobbing his head fast between James’ legs.

It’s so filthy, and James feels his toes curl when Lacuna relaxes his throat, slipping all the way down again, squeezing tight around James’ cock, fluttery and hot. Tears slide down Lacuna’s cheeks as he fights against a gag, breaths all shuddery with his mouth crammed full of dick.

 _Oh, Christ,_ James thinks, _God, this kid was_ **_made_ ** _to suck dick._

He's so fucking _good_ ; James moans, his hips twitching into the wet, soft heat of Lacuna’s mouth, his eyes scrunching shut as the kid fucks his throat on James’ cock, nose bumping against sandy curls.

“Fuck- _yeah_ , fuck, just like that,” James manages, his voice dissipating on a groan as Lacuna works his tongue along the bottom vein. “ _Shit-_ yeah, _yeah_ , you're fucking pretty-”

That gets a sloppy gag, and James feels his eyes roll back at the tight friction and the feeling of spit dripping down his balls, a wash of pleasure drifting through his nerves, heat coiling in his guts _way_ too soon.

_Fuck._

Sighing, Lacuna grips James’ thighs, his eyelashes fluttering as his fingers stroke over the downy hairs there, all tender and slow. James’ fingers tangle in his hair, looping through the soft curls, hand coming to rest on the back of Lacuna's neck.

Then James groans, just pushing slightly, and Lacuna gets the hint, his throat relaxing as his mouth stretches wide around James' cock.

Lacuna _moans_ , gagging as the head of James’ dick strikes the back of his throat with a filthy squelch of spit. James watches as his eyelashes flutter, tears webbing the thin strands together, glimmering in the low light.

_Fuck, he's so pretty._

“Oh, _shit_ , baby,” James sighs, “God, you look so good with a dick in your mouth, _fuck._ ”

That gets a whine, and Lacuna pulls back up, slipping off his dick with a wet cough, his lips all swollen with spit. “ _Fuck_ ,” Lacuna moans, “ _Mmm_ , you got any lube?”

_Oh, god._

James is sure he's going to die, because _holy fuck._

“Yeah- _yeah_ ,” James stutters, “Fuck, baby, you- you want me to do it?”

Lacuna nods, before sinking back down on his dick. His throat works as he sucks a little to tease James, moaning quietly, and James groans, his hips lurching forwards into that tight suction, utterly engulfed in the warmth of Lacuna’s mouth. 

It's so good he almost forgets what he's supposed to be looking for.

 _Right, fuck, lube,_ James thinks, _fuck- fuck!_

One hand rests on the back of Lacuna’s neck, while the other shakily gropes for the lube and a condom in the bedside table, dropping the plastic packages to the bedspread. James has to bite back the urge to moan as Lacuna deepthroats him again, gagging softly. 

_Holy shit._

“Okay- _okay_ , baby, _fuck_ ,” James manages shakily, his voice pitching into a groan as Lacuna pulls off slightly and works his tongue along the vein, lips tight around the head of his cock. “Oh- yeah- _yeah,_ fuck-”

Lacuna laughs; it comes out as a hum, and the vibrations make James’ toes curl. Then he pulls off, James’ dick slipping out between his lips. A sudden punch of arousal hits James hard at the way Lacuna gasps for air, spit dripping down his chin all glimmery and slow.

“Fuck, your dick’s so big,” Lacuna moans, “ _God_ , want you to fuck me _so bad_.”

His voice is _destroyed_ ; rough, raspy, faint and so filled with need James thinks he could come from it alone.

_Imagine how good it’s gonna be, him riding your dick, moaning in your ear, begging for more-_

Well, _fuck_.

James pulls Lacuna in for a kiss, moaning against his lips. Lacuna goes easily, sliding up into his lap, and James cups his slim little hips tenderly, one hand slipping down to fist his dick.

He’s so slender, so thin and light. It makes James’ guts twist with heat.

 _Bet I could fuck him against the wall of my shower,_ James thinks, _Christ, probably rail him over the control panel- **shiiiiiit**. _

“Ah- _oh_ , fuck,” Lacuna moans, his hips twitching up into James’ touch with each pass of James’ hand. “Yeah- _fuck_ , feels so good-”

Swallowing up Lacuna’s whines with hungry, slick kisses, James jacks him off slowly, teasingly, rubbing the pad of his thumb through his slit, speeding up slightly, getting a breathy whine.

“ _Fuck-_ fuck,” Lacuna gasps raggedly, “Fuck- gotta stop, otherwise I'm gonna- _gonna come_ , fuck-”

James does as asked, kissing along the crook of his neck instead, groping distractedly for the lube. “Okay, baby,” he groans, popping the cap and getting his fingers all slick and wet. “ _Fuck_ , you’re so pretty.”

Lacuna as good as _keens_ at that, whining against his throat as James spreads his ass and dips his fingers lower, teasing around his rim and along the soft, tender skin of his perineum.

“Ah- c’mon, _please- oh!_ ” 

James groans, kissing him softly, working his finger in quickly, curling and rubbing his fingertip against his prostate as Lacuna moans and grinds his hips down into his thrusts. 

“Yeah- _fuck_ , you're so pretty, so _tight_ ,” James murmurs, “So fuckin’ hot.”

One finger becomes two, three, lube dripping slickly down his wrist, and James sucks a hickey under Lacuna’s jaw, his gut twisting with each little gasp and moan.

It's so, _so_ fucking hot. 

“Okay, I’m good- I’m good, _fuck_ ,” Lacuna gasps, whining as James crooks his fingers once more before pulling out with a wet squelch. “Shit- _please-_ ”

Like James needs any more encouragement. His hands are shaky with desire as he rips open the little foil packaging, sliding on the condom and slicking himself up.

Then James groans lowly, his mind turning to mush and his skin prickling with heat as Lacuna lines himself up and slides all the way down.

“Oh, _fuuuuck_ ,” James moans, “God, _baby-_ ”

Lacuna whines, shivering as he adjusts around James’ dick, getting comfortable in his lap. James has to grip the sheets to focus on not coming, his eyes scrunching shut at that tight friction, so slick and hot and so, so goddamn _good_.

Slouching against the headboard, James feels himself slip down a little in his haze, going boneless as Lacuna squeezes tight around him.

_Fuck._

“Yeah, mmm, _yeah_ ,” Lacuna moans quietly, rocking his hips lazily into the stretch, his head thrown back and his dick drooling precum all over his fingers. “C’mon, baby, fuck me hard.”

James has to bite back the urge to moan. Instead, he grips Lacuna’s slim hips tightly, savouring the whine he gets, thumbs rubbing over the press of bone to soothe him.

“Okay, baby, god,” James sighs, “Fuck, okay- _god-_ ”

It’s fast, slick and hot and desperate. Lacuna rides him hard, squeezing tight around his dick on every drag upwards, little hands planted on James’ stomach for balance, and James fucks up roughly in time with each roll of Lacuna’s hips, gripping his slim sides tight, sucking hickeys all over his pale, delicate collarbones.

James knows they’re both not gonna last long; too overwhelmed, too on-edge, both chasing that burn with single-minded need.

Pleasure drips in James’ guts like honey, heat curling and twisting in the base of his stomach, searing through his nerves and burning up his spine all white-hot. James moans, feeling his dick twitch, and suddenly he’s riding that crest upwards, everything slowing and speeding up simultaneously.

James bucks his hips up a little harder, his dick slamming up against Lacuna’s prostate; that gets a punched-out whine, breathy and desperate, and Lacuna cants his hips down a little faster. 

“ _Oh_ \- fuck, _fuck-_ please,” Lacuna moans, “Ah- _please-_ ”

Biting along his collarbones, James hums and wraps his hand around Lacuna's dick, rubbing his thumb through the slit as his hips jerk up. Lacuna _sobs_ , tightening up, shivering as his pleasure mounts, his hips twitching at the stimulation.

“C'mon, baby,” James whispers, “C’mon, _yeah_ , so pretty-”

Lacuna cries out as he comes, spilling all over James’ hand and his stomach, moaning against James’ throat, and suddenly James is coming so hard he sees stars, everything going fuzzy as he gasps, hips jerking up roughly as he fills the condom.

_Holy shit._

It takes James a moment to catch his breath, letting his clean hand rub soothingly over the small of Lacuna’s back, skin all slick with sweat. That gets a tired moan, and James sighs, pressing a kiss to the side of Lacuna's head.

“God,” James says breathlessly, “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , kid.” 

Lacuna snickers quietly, pulling himself up with a little hiss as James’ softening dick slips out of his ass, before slumping limply out of James’ lap and collapsing to the mattress.

James grins, rolling over to sit on the other side of the bed, tying off the condom and chucking it into the trash can. Then he grabs his boxers off the floor and shimmies into them clumsily.

The clock on the night table blinks green in the dark: nearly four in the morning. James falls back into the sheets, sighing dazedly.

 _Least I’m not scheduled until the next night-cycle,_ James thinks, with no small amount of relief. _Wonder if he’d be down for another round._

There’s a quiet little click.

James blinks, before rolling over slowly in his haze.

His blood goes cold, his eyes travelling up the barrel of the little handgun to Lacuna’s face, barely visible in the dark of James’ bedroom.

_Where did he get the goddamn gun from?_

James swallows, nervously. His own ray gun is still clipped to the holster of his pants, tossed haphazardly across the floor. His eyes dart wildly back and forth between the end of the gun and his pants on the ground. _Maybe, if I could just-_

“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Lacuna hums, snapping James out of his thoughts. “Unless you want me to blow a goddamn hole through your skull.”

James chews his lip. “Yeah, well,” he says, voice rough and still slurred with pleasure (although his orgasmic high is _rapidly_ waning), “I- look, baby- if you want money, all you have to do is ask-”

That gets a little laugh. Flat, clipped.

“Don't need your money, _baby,_ ” Lacuna says coldly, cutting him off, and his smile is sharp around the edges now. “But that's sweet of you.”

And just as James is considering maybe lunging up at this kid, maybe trying to knock the gun free of his hands, there's a sharp, staticky crackle and a sudden blow to his chest.

It _burns_. James feels his mouth open on a gasp, his back arching at the shock of pain that licks up his spine and rattles his brain around in his skull. Blue sparks burst behind his eyes, searing his retinas before fading slowly.

The last thing he hears is that raspy little laugh, and then-

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u all dont mind the cliffhanger too much >:-)
> 
> anyways much love + thanks for reading !!!!! hopefully ill be able to get the next chapter up soon since its nearly done <3


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing he needs is to get sloppy or careless, because that’ll kill him. Jason doesn’t really want to get the ship out into orbit just to have the barrel of an _actual_ gun pressed up against his head.
> 
> Odds are he’ll get fucked up and then ransomed back over to his advisors for nearly double the bounty they currently have on his head.
> 
> _Ugh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well ,, my goal of sticking to a self-imposed deadline has fallen apart lmao :'-)  
> anyways. im anticipating that the next chap probably wont be up for a lil while,,, def not gonna be in a week (oops !!)  
> but uh srsly thanks for reading + sticking w/ me so far !! enjoy ? :'-)
> 
> cw: mild emetophobia

The sun comes up slowly, peeking over the horizon all warm and orangey-red, glimmering across the waters of lake Meuo.

Its light sparkles across the waves that lap at the shore, stirred to foam by the roar of blasters from ships that streak along the surface of the water.

Navvi summers bring early sunrises; the kind that warms the very soil, the kind that sharpens throughout the day to a broiling warmth, the kind that simmers all heavy in the air.

Rays of sunlight glimmer through the skylight above Jason’s head. It bathes the rest of the cabin in an otherworldly, gorgeous glow, just barely illuminating the particles of dust that drift aimlessly through the air.

It’s almost _peaceful_.

Or at least it would be, considering the fact that Jason’s currently preoccupied with tying his now-unconscious hookup to the headboard of his own bed.

Jason huffs, pulling the rope taut. The posts of the headboard creak under the strain, James’ wrists going white from the pressure, the rope squeezing tight with Jason’s effort.

Below him, James breathes slowly, eyes rolled back under his mostly-closed eyelids. There's a burn mark from the stun gun, right along his sternum, the skin bright red and swollen slightly. 

James twitches as Jason pulls hard on the rope again, a little moan slipping out of his throat, eyelashes fluttering.

Jason snorts a laugh. Least the sex had been pretty good; Jason’s pretty sure James got off to the whole Lacuna thing, anyways. He's also pretty sure that James never saw his face clearly, considering the dark of his cabin, so it’s a little bit of a relief that whoever James thinks he hooked up with is gonna remain faceless.

The real problem is his plan. Honestly? Jason didn’t even think he'd _get_ this far. So at this point, he’s mostly just praying everything doesn’t fall apart completely.

The one thing he knows, unfortunately, is that he can’t just ditch James on Navvi. Apart from the fact that there's a frustrating little curl of guilt in his guts over the idea, it’ll only cause more problems for him later. 

It’s kind of the last thing he wants, actually, because then James will only end up contacting the rest of his Drifter crew, and while Jason’s only ever heard stories of the bloodthirst Drifters have for backstabbers and double-crossers, he’d rather _not_ experience it firsthand.

There’s a reason the Drifter motto is _all enemies are those who wrong us,_ after all.

Hence the rope-bondage-hostage-situation. He’ll figure out what to do with James later.

And sure, the stun gun is powerful, considering James is easily over six feet and out cold. But Jason’s also not going to leave anything to chance, considering that he's stealing the guy’s fucking _ship._

The last thing he needs is to get sloppy or careless, because that’ll kill him. Jason doesn’t really want to get the ship out into orbit just to have the barrel of an _actual_ gun pressed up against his head.

Odds are he’ll get fucked up and then ransomed back over to his advisors for nearly double the bounty they currently have on his head.

 _Ugh_. 

He hadn't had to look very far for some restraints, at least. Jason had found the rope in one of the drawers in the night-table beside the bed, all coiled up and sitting pretty on some porno mags.

 _Kinky motherfucker,_ Jason thinks, grinning slightly, _least the rope’s pretty strong._

Interestingly enough, most of the magazines are Terran (from Earth, for anyone within the Milky Way galaxy at least), visually distinct due to their alphabet and the use of mostly-outdated technology in print. 

His intergalactic translator is still in his jacket, though, and without it Jason can’t make out the meaning of any of the writing, the ink reduced to indistinct jumbles, faded and worn-out.

But, y’know. Not like the writing in porno mags is a major aspect anyways.

The rope creaks as Jason ties off a final knot, James’ wrists suspended above his head and lashed to the metal posts of the headboard. Jason checks the strength of his knots, tugging gently, making sure nothing shifts and letting out a sigh once it all holds tight.

_Okay, one less thing to worry about. Should get cleaned up, though._

Jason slips off the bed, his legs still a little shaky, wincing at the feeling of lube trickling down his inner thighs as he steps over his leather pants- still crumpled up on the floor- on his way to the bathroom. 

The bathroom itself is fairly sparse, the biolock disengaged, all clean tiles and slim glass panes. There's a small mirror set above a glimmery stainless-steel sink, a toothbrush in an old takeout cup perched on the lip, a tiny little medicine cabinet gleaming underneath the harsh fluorescent overhead light.

As if on cue, it flickers when he closes the door, the white tiles taking on a sickly sheen. 

It’s too bright, too unnatural; makes him look nauseous, amplifies the bags under his eyes to purpled smudges.

Jason frowns at his reflection, wrinkling his nose at the smattering of hickeys all over his neck and collarbones. Rubs his finger over one of the bigger bites, wincing as he clumsily prods the purpling teeth-marks.

His throat is sore, rubbed-raw and dry. Jason turns the sink on, cupping his hands under the tap, gulping a couple mouthfuls before he swishes the water around in his mouth and spits into the sink. 

He can feel the lube dripping its way lower and lower, cooling against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. The bathroom is cold, almost chillingly stark, unforgiving in that way unfamiliarity often is.

It makes his skin prickle with worry, with fear, an underlying current of panic humming along his spine, twining between his guts. 

Above it all, though, is his desire to get clean; it overpowers his nerves, the need to wash everything off and start fresh utterly overwhelming.

Jason opens the glass door and steps into the shower, adjusting the controls on the little panel set in the wall, display lights blinking softly. The pipes clank and gutter before hot water sprays out of the shower head, pattering softly against the tile under his feet. 

As he lets the water run through his hair and sluice down his back, Jason thinks about the past forty-eight hours. 

Lets himself drift, exhaustion setting in as he washes his face with clumsy hands.

So far he’s found out about an intergalactic invasion and murder plot, faked his own kidnapping, hidden out in a motel, gone to a nightclub, hooked up with a Drifter, got fucked, tazed the guy, and is now preparing to steal his ship.

 _Holy fuck_.

There's a well of guilt, deep in his stomach. He’s beginning to regret everything he’s done to get to this point. James is just some random Drifter who’s gotten caught up in his bullshit, and for what?

Then he remembers what he’s running from, and Jason feels his chest tighten in fear, heart panging and breaths going shuddery.

It’s too much; his head won’t stop spinning.

Then it's like the full weight of everything comes crashing down on him, sudden and heavy, and his gut _aches_ with regret. 

Jason slumps down onto his knees. 

The tile is cool against his hands.

_Oh, god, oh, god-_

_What the fuck am I doing?_

_I’m gonna die._

_And now I’ve fucking tazed a guy to steal his ship, and I’m just digging myself a deeper grave-_

_I’m gonna die! Either i’m gonna get shot or end up in prison or get captured and I’m gonna die-_

_Oh, god, I’m gonna die-_

It takes him a moment to realize he's crying, tears leaking down his cheeks slowly as he gasps for air. 

His stomach churns. Jason gags, a little bit of watery puke splattering across the shower tiles between his knees. He coughs, choking through a dry-heave, only managing to retch up stomach acid and alcohol.

It burns his throat, stinking and sharp.

He watches it slip down the drain. Jason wipes at his face clumsily, a little sob eking out before he can stifle it.

It's not _fair_ ; it's like a mantra in his head, repeating again and again. 

_It's not fair, it’s not fair, it's not_ **_fair_** _._

He's barely twenty-four, desperate and alone and terrified for his life, on the run with his friends hundreds of light-years away and nobody on Navvi to help him.

And the more that he thinks about it, the more he's _horrified_. 

Navvi has never been a warmongering planet; no army to facilitate, anyways, all defense limited to shielding technologies only utilized in the most dire of scenarios. They’re a planet of peacekeepers, one that frowns upon violence. 

Or at least they _were_ ; Jason wonders how long his advisors have been planning this for. 

And that's another thing. Navvi operates within a democratic system, and just as he’d been elected, so had all his advisors. So their betrayal puzzles and frightens him in equal measure.

_Either they ran together and formulated this plan ages before, or they were swayed into it._

He’s not sure what scares him more, honestly.

The partnership with Tarvos is one of need. A give-and-take. But it makes him sick, because it’s a doomed relationship from the get-go; Jason can’t even _begin_ to count how many times an alliance with Tarvos has failed spectacularly, always ending in complete and utter devastation. 

It's predictable. Awful. Just another little bloodstain in the cosmos.

His hands shake as he pushes his wet hair out of his face.

And even with Tarvos’ forces, they'll be hard-pressed to take on Amalthea, considering they’re one of the most diplomatically interconnected planets within the entirety of the Belenez _galaxy_ ; Navvi only outmatches them by two treaties. 

Trying to invade them is practically _suicide_.

It's confusing. It's confusing and it's making him nauseous and nervous and worried and angry. 

He feels selfish, trying to run away. Feels like a proper leader wouldn't be such a coward.

 _Would a proper leader have his advisors actively conspiring to kill him?_

Most of all, he's so, so _scared._

Jason sighs, his shoulders dropping. His skin prickles, the heat from the shower overwhelming. Jason turns the temperature down slightly, scrubbing tiredly at his face.

He feels a little better, almost. Maybe he just needed the emotional reprieve, the ability to just have a moment to release everything he's been carrying. 

_It’s too late to back out now. You've come this far._

_Turn back and you die._

Jason stands up slowly, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. It feels so nice, warm and soothing, and Jason lets himself get lost in the feeling, water dripping down his back. 

He runs through his plan slowly, letting the warm water soothe the ache in his spine. 

_Okay, so I tied the guy up, check. Then I gotta go to the cockpit and disable all the comms and retcon systems so that nobody in his crew will realize where I’m going, and plot my course for Vasar._

Jason wipes the water from his eyes, reaching for the bottle of shampoo leaning haphazardly in the shower rack. It smells like almonds and cherries when he squeezes a little into the palm of his hand, and Jason snorts a laugh, scrubbing his hair quickly.

Hala is way too far for a standard-shot trip, hundreds of thousands of light-years away and ridiculously remote. He'd never make it in one go, even if nothing else went wrong. 

And, considering that he’s effectively the most-wanted person in the entire _universe_ right now, there’s no way _something’s_ not going to happen.

But Vasar is much closer. It's a little mining planet, an outcrop of Celios, sister planet to Navvi. And it’s also a pretty good place to lay low for a bit, due to the fact that most of the inhabitants are miners and smugglers and bounty hunters.

It's the kind of rough and tumble place where you're usually not looked at twice; decent enough for him to hide out for a bit and figure out his next steps, at least.

Jason yawns, rinsing the suds from his hair, shampoo splattering to the tiles and swirling lazily down the drain. Then he washes up, scrubbing off the dried-up lube between his thighs with the bar of soap. 

By the time he's done, the mirror is fogged with steam. Jason grabs a towel from the rack, drying himself off quickly before wrapping it around his waist.

Then he heads back to the bedroom.

James is still out, snoring into his arm, eyelashes fluttering. Jason bites back the urge to laugh, pulling one of the wardrobe drawers open quietly. 

Jason rummages through the contents of the drawer for a pair of briefs. He’s pretty sure they’re the smallest possible pair, but they’re still slightly loose on his hips, slipping down a little and exposing the flat of his navel. 

He dumps his old briefs and the towel into the laundry chute in the bedroom, wincing as the little door clunks loudly in the silence. James doesn’t stir, though, and Jason shrugs, grabbing his clothes off the ground.

Then he gets redressed, slipping back into his leather pants and his little camisole, pulling on his boots. He sorts through the contents in the pockets of his leather jacket slowly, scanning over everything to make sure it’s all still there.

His credit chit is light in his palm, blue circuitry exposed by the translucent material. Jason fits his intergalactic translator back into his ear, the little metal disc expanding to fit snugly, chirruping before going silent once again. Jason looks down at his fake ID, the holophoto of himself shimmering slightly. 

_Lacuna Novo_.

Sighing, Jason tucks his credit chit and ID card back into the breast pocket of his leather jacket carefully. He pats his right-hand pocket, fingers trailing over the shape of his taser.

There’s a quiet snore from the bed.

Jason stares at James’ sleeping figure. _Least he_ **_was_ ** _pretty sweet, if a little rough around the edges,_ he concedes. _Maybe he'll understand_.

The thought makes him laugh. 

_Understand_? Yeah, right. He’ll be lucky if he’s not shot and ejected out of the goddamn _airlock_.

That reminds him; Jason kneels down, unclipping James’ gun from its holster on his belt. It's surprisingly heavy, solid and cold in his hands, and Jason swallows nervously, making sure the safety is engaged with shaky fingers.

_Last thing you want is to accidentally blow a hole through your forehead for real this time._

Better to not take any chances.

Rummaging in James' wardrobe produces a little shoulder holster, the brown leather cracked and worn from use. Jason shrugs out of his leather jacket and wiggles the holster on, fiddling with the straps, tugging until it goes snug against his sides and chest. 

Then he slides the gun in and pulls his leather jacket back on. 

The gun rests against his ribs, cold and solid and heavy.

James mumbles in his sleep dazedly. It sounds like _fuck, hot, oh- oh, fuck-_ albeit slurred egregiously- and Jason snickers. Then he grabs his holomask off the bedside table, slips it into his jacket pocket, and closes the door to the bedroom behind him with a little click.

+

After poking around in James’ kitchen- which is admittedly tiny- and unearthing not only a kettle but also a package of reconstitutable coffee, Jason's feeling a little less sick to his stomach. 

Or at least a little less tired; at this point, it's probably a toss-up as to what he's _actually_ feeling, beyond an overarching sense of worry and inevitability.

 _Fan- **fucking** -tastic_.

Jason rummages through the one little cupboard, pulling a stray lucite mug down and filling it with the boiling water, stirring in the coffee powder with a plastic spoon.

Then he heads to the flight deck.

He's not helpless when it comes to piloting; he'd learned years ago, after all, and when he had been able to visit Kirk the two of them would race ships through the deserts on Hala, spending hours streaming across the sand under the scorching heat of the two suns.

The good thing about V-ships, at least, is the fact that they aren’t all that different from the A-ships he'd grown up flying.

Jason takes a sip of coffee, setting the mug aside on the dash and settling into one of the flight chairs. Then he boots up the control panel, swiping through the commands page on the holo display and pulling up the comms information.

The advantage to stealing a Drifter ship was the fact that they came standard-equipped with some of the most sophisticated anti-detection software in the galaxy. Shields, scan-blockers, tracking evasion programs? That's just the _tip_ of the iceberg.

The real problem would be the comms and the retcon connection to the other ships in James’ crew. Drifters relied on synchronicity when it came to field work, after all, and being able to always know where your allies are is crucial to success.

It’s unfortunately a huge hindrance if you just wanted to disappear _without_ disabling all connection to the main flagship.

But, well. Jason reminds himself that he doesn’t have any other choice. 

_Remember, you’ll be six feet under if you don’t get moving_ , his mind helpfully fills in, _unless you wanna be mince-meat, how ‘bout we fucking go?_

Jason sighs, opens up the comms menu and the keypad, and gets to work.

+

Turns out it’s not too hard to disable most of it.

Kind of a pain, actually, to sift through the programs and shit, but it’s not impossible. Jason’s always had a dogged sense of patience for the things that really matter, and it’s paying off now.

Jason yawns, stretching out his shoulders. His coffee is mostly lukewarm, and he takes a final sip, plotting his course for Vasar, making sure to skirt far enough away from Celios so that he hopefully shouldn’t attract any unwanted attention.

Then he dials in the commands for launch.

While he waits for it his flight trajectory to load- the projected time clocks in at around fifteen minutes- Jason takes his time snooping around the rest of the ship.

It’s a fairly standard V-ship in layout; flight deck above the main cabin accessed by a rickety set of unfolding stairs, the cabin below divided between a bathroom, a bedroom, and a commons area accented with a tiny kitchen and a crooked table.

The metal floors squeak under his boots, a hatch outlined with grease and dirt clanking heavily as he steps onto it. _Likely for engine maintenance,_ Jason thinks, _Christ, what a pigsty._

The main cabin is cluttered with all manner of crap, old packages of reconstitutable food and bottles all over the ground, grungy leather jackets tossed haphazardly across the table, wires and tools crammed in toolboxes off to the sides and caked with dust.

There’s a thin seam along one of the walls that glows blue every so often, an obvious indicator of a weapons storage. The biolock near it is dead, though, and when Jason presses his palm to it, there’s a couple seconds where it flashes white before turning red with a loud buzz.

A huge holoscreen hangs suspended between the table and the base of the flight deck, diagnostics of the ship currently displayed in thin, glimmery-blue graphics, notifications blinking in bright orange.

Jason taps on the image of the ship, watching as it enlarges, statistics coming up beside it in a little box. Scrolling through the information, Jason scans through the readings carefully, checking through fuel-tank capacity and blaster capabilities.

A little message pings in the corner.

_Comms system disabled. Comms system disabled. Comms system disabled._

Jason taps out of the display, his attention turning to the rest of the cabin.

Tucked along the counter towards the back of the cabin is a set of drawers. The cupboards slide open with a hiss of air, and Jason pokes through them at random, digging through the mess.

One is just full of spare boots and jackets, broken translators and holocards coating the bottom, all manner of residual junk ranging from poker chips to crumpled-up cigarette boxes to packages of bacta-patches.

There’s also, Jason notices, a box containing the little capsules for spacemasks, the packaging worn and the lettering slightly faded.

They’re essential for low-oxygen planets and accidental ejections. Jason is well aware of the risks of exposure to deep space, having seen enough footage of the slow, achingly cold death that came from lack of oxygen in the frigid wastes of the universe.

It’s gradual; first the skin begins to go blue, caking over with frost. Then the eyes freeze in place, sclera going red as all of one’s blood vessels burst, guts and organs turning to mush inside the body from the lack of oxygen and the crushing pressure. 

Corpses recovered after fatal exposure are freezing to the touch, so frozen that rough handling can cause breakage. Limbs snap like twigs, the flesh and bone within eaten away, utterly disintegrated.

Jason shivers. Then he rummages in the box, snagging a few spacemask capsules just in case and zipping them into the breast pocket of his jacket. Considering how expensive and hard-to-get they usually are, he’d be stupid not to take them.

_Least if I get ejected I won’t immediately die. Yay._

The other drawers are boring; broken guns and blasters, lengths of rope, shattered datapads and shredded jackets, little trinkets that Jason assumes must have been from various heists, the sort of clutter that looks like it could have only been amassed over years and years.

Jason sighs, pulling open the last cupboard. 

His eyes widen.

There's more Terran crap in this one; loads of it, actually. Jason taps on his translator, and the little holoscreen unfurls, text seen through it glimmering bright green before converting to the language of Navvi (or as close as it can manage, at least).

Jason picks up one of the plastic boxes. It rattles a little when he shakes it. Turning it over in his hands, the name blinks up at him.

_Black Sabbath._

Frowning, Jason pulls the little case open. Inside there's another thing of plastic, with more text printed on either side. Jason takes it out gingerly, fiddling with one of the little holes, watching as tape within it shifts back and forth slightly.

Terran technology is _rare_ this far out. It’s all but obsolete outside of the Milky Way galaxy, anyways. It tends to hold up pretty poorly in space for archival purposes, requiring ridiculous amounts of care and preservation, the sort of thing that only the richest of collectors can afford to invest in keeping.

Less hardy than Terrans themselves, at least. Earthlings. Humans.

Jason wishes he had his database with him. He'd had to leave it behind, the paper-sized holopad too bulky to hide somewhere. The repository of information on it was _endless_ , chock-full of all sorts of data on hundreds of thousands of civilizations, from their political systems and the geography of their cities down to the simplest trinkets they used on a daily basis, crucial for intergalactic reconnaissance.

But now Jason only wishes he had it so at least he could figure out what these things _are._

There's probably thirty or fourty of them, scattered haphazardly throughout the drawer. Jason picks ones up at random, turning them over and reading the text printed on the sides, eyes drawn to the graphics of each one.

_Led Zeppelin. Budgie. David Bowie. Pink Floyd._

It’s all meaningless, considering he has no clue what a _budgie_ is, much less a _pink floyd._ Jason frowns, setting them back in the drawer, before he notices some writing on one.

The black ink is slightly faded, worn in places, but his translator can still make out the gist of it.

_James Hetfield._

Jason blinks, rubbing his thumb over the letters.

So James is Terran; Jason files that information away for later. _Never know when it could be handy_ , he reasons, _especially if something happens._

There’s a chime from the flight deck, the holoscreen pinging with a new message.

_Flight path mapped. Flight path mapped. Flight path mapped._

Before he heads to the deck, Jason takes a second to check on James, opening the bedroom door carefully, wincing as it creaks. Light from the commons area pools across the floor in a yellowed arc, spreading as the door swings open a little more.

James is still asleep, snoring quietly. Jason snorts a laugh, lingering for just a moment.

He’s not really sure _why._

_Weird._

Shaking his head, Jason closes the bedroom door once again, climbing the rickety stairs up into the flight deck and settling into the captain’s chair. 

The holoscreen on the dash blinks up at him, displaying the flight trajectory. Jason flicks a couple switches, turning the dial for the engine.

The ship roars to life suddenly, blasters engaging gradually, the energy thrumming through the controls. Jason eases her upwards slowly, maneuvering to allow the wings to unfold completely, pressing the button to retract the landing gear. The roar of the engines pitches to a scream as he tilts the controls all the way back and punches the gas.

Shooting upwards, Jason stares down through the blastshield at Navvi’s surface, watching as it gradually fades from clarity the higher and higher he climbs, blues and greens all blurring together, everything smooth and calm from thousands of miles above the surface.

His home. Jason’s not sure if it _is_ , anymore.

Jason turns back to the controls, monitoring the altitude, punching the buttons for the secondary blasters. The ship’s surface burns and crackles as it exits Navvi’s atmosphere in a streak of red and orange and white-hot flame, streaking into the velvet-black of the universe like a comet.

There’s a little blink of white, bright and shimmery, and then it’s swallowed up in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 much love + thnx for reading !!!


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point, James is pretty sure he's gonna _kill_ the kid.
> 
> His ego is bruised; that’s the part that annoys him the most, because he’s the second-in-command of a feared Drifter legion, and some scrawny little twink with a stun gun managed to fuck him over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so !!! i finished a bunch of uni work this week and went ham finishing this chap ,,, so enjoy i guess LMAO  
> also DAMN cant believe we're almost at 20k ,,, sweet 
> 
> \+ ive also got a playlist for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0KN8ZWKJbSiAwBBWi4YasS?si=QXbImOMuQcyISiGeGoaegA) if ur into that !! its a lot of 70s stuff w/ some other things mixed in :-) its basically just a bunch of stuff ive been listening to while working on this fic lmao 
> 
> anyways thanks for sticking w/ me !! enjoy <3

There’s the warmth of hands, soft as they trail down his stomach, teasingly skating over his hips and dipping lower.

James groans. He feels so bizarrely immobile, as if he’s frozen, suspended in pleasure, tangled up in want. 

Perhaps the weirdest thing is the fact that he can’t see _anything_ ; it’s all black, fuzzed-out, the only sensations the warmth of skin on skin and the heat building in his guts at the soft puff of breath on his thighs. 

Then those hands wrap around his dick, a thumb circling over the head. 

James feels a moan tear from his throat. 

That gets a laugh, quiet and soft, before wet, slick lips press up against the head of his cock, a tongue gliding through his slit.

Then those lips part, stretching wide around each inch of his dick, slipping down, down, down-

Oh, _shit_.

James feels his hips buck up uncontrollably. That gets a muffled gag, hands grabbing his hips to hold him down, fingers digging in as that mouth works its way up, spit dripping coolly down his dick.

White-hot pleasure burns up his spine.

He wants to hold, wants to caress, but James feels as if his arms have gone limp, his back arching weakly into the wet, hot warmth engulfing his dick, the slight-sharp ache of nails digging into the skin of his hips.

He’s dazed, aching for more, too spun-out and overwhelmed by the heat prickling in his guts to do anything more than let it all wash over him, let it build and crawl through his nerves thick and sweet-slow.

It’s so, so good, and James feels that sudden burn rush through his blood, that coil in the pit of his stomach winding tight way, _way_ too soon.

 _Yeah_ -

Oh, _fuck-_

+

There’s a shrill ring.

It cuts through the haze of his dream, all sudden and sharp, and James feels his heart lurch, his eyes flying open.

He’s met with utter darkness.

James blinks rapidly, confusion causing his eyes to flick wildly around, trying to make some sense of his surroundings.

_Shit, where the fuck am I?_

It takes a moment for his eyes to focus, his bedroom still mostly indistinct in the pitch-black dark. James turns his head, eyes catching on the alarm resting on the bedside table that blinks neon-green.

Then he feels his stomach drop, because the numbers that blink up at him- _12:45_ \- display that he’s late for his shift.

_Well, fuck. Lars is gonna kill me._

James groans loudly, yawning and wincing as his jaw cracks. He’s uncomfortably hard in his boxers, the head of his dick glued to the fabric with precum, and James sighs, lowering his hand to take care of it.

Or at least he tries to. James feels his eyebrows furrow, because his wrists suddenly strain against something tight, chafing against the skin, way too snug for comfort.

A shot of pain radiates through his nerves, and James tilts his head back to look up at his wrists, which have been tied to his own goddamn _headboard_.

James blinks dumbly.

_What the fuck did I do last night?_

Honestly? James doesn't really remember. Blurry little flashes of the night before come back in random pieces, all scattered and fuzzy. He recalls drinking with Rob, watching Lars try to unsuccessfully flirt, and then-

 _The kid at the bar,_ his mind helpfully fills in, _what the fuck was his name? Something with an L, right?_

James frowns, mentally replaying the conversation at the bar in his attempt to remember, seeing the kid in his mind’s eye; those soft lips, slim fingers holding a cigarette, the warmth of those little hands around his shoulders.

_Wait- Lacuna. Yeah, that's it. So we obviously hooked up._

James scrunches his eyes shut, trying to parse through everything and figure out how the fuck the night somehow ended _here_. 

The bedroom is cold; James shivers, before he winces at a sudden, sharp pain between his ribs. Looking down his chest, James feels his eyes widen at a reddened patch of skin on his sternum, roughly an inch in diameter and slightly puffy. 

It pangs as he shifts, and James groans at the ache in his shoulders, the staticy feeling in his fingers from lack of blood.

_Christ, did he forget to untie me or something? Shit-_

Then everything else comes flooding back, his mind whirling with recollections of the moments before everything went black.

The _gun_ ; turns out it hadn’t been real, after all. _Yeah_ , James thinks bitterly, _just a little stun gun. Still real enough to knock me the fuck out, obviously._

_But why? What the fuck would that accomplish? Unless he’s-_

His eyes flick over to the window; stars drift by slowly, glimmery in the dark, passing in and out of view in the reinforced glass pane.

Oh, _fuck_.

+

So.

Not only has some kid gotten the jump on him, using his post-coital daze to shock him out and tie him up, the kid’s also decided to take his ship on a joyride.

Just to add insult to injury. Rub some extra salt in the wound.

_Fuck._

The clock beeps again. James turns his head, glaring at the numbers once he registers it’s been an hour since he’s woken up. He feels like shit; all he wants is a shower and a cup of coffee, for fuck’s sake. Least he's not turned on anymore.

 _Maybe this is karma coming back to bite you in the ass,_ his mind helpfully fills in, _y’know, since you’d deserve it._

James huffs frustratedly. The kid’s obviously doing _something_ on his ship- and the thought of that makes James’ skin prickle with annoyance and worry, because he _loves_ his ship- and it’s really pissing him off that he’s stuck sitting here, in the dark, immobile and with nothing more to occupy him than watching the stars pass by through his window.

At least he’s managed to wiggle up a little so his wrists aren’t chafing against the rope anymore. 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

At this point, James is pretty sure he's gonna _kill_ the kid.

His ego is bruised; that’s the part that annoys him the most, because he’s the second-in-command of a feared Drifter legion, and some scrawny little twink with a stun gun managed to fuck him over.

James lets out a heavy sigh, shifting again on the bed to get a little more comfortable since his legs are starting to fall asleep.

Then there’s a quiet click.

James freezes, watching as the twin halves of the bedroom door slide apart with a little huff of air and a greasy squeal. Light pools across the floor and over the edge of the bed before drifting upwards, illuminating his face. 

Squinting at the sudden brightness, James scowls once he recognizes the silhouette in the doorway.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

“No thanks to you,” James spits, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Lacuna shrugs, his boots clicking on the metal floor as he approaches the bed, staying far enough back that James can’t stretch his legs out enough to kick him. His holomask glimmers slightly, cold and infuriatingly emotionless.

“It’s nothing personal,” Lacuna says quietly, “Just needed a ship. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Go _fuck_ yourself,” James grinds out. “When I get my fuckin’ hands on you, kid, you’re gonna wish you were already _dead_.”

Lacuna laughs. “Aww, c’mon, baby,” he teases, “You don't really mean that. I’ll be honest, I’d much rather cooperate with you than have to kill you. Besides, the reward should interest you.”

“Oh yeah?” James snarls, “Got a lot of nerve, kid. Like I’m gonna stoop that low for a couple million units-”

“How does half a billion units sound?”

James feels the rest of his sentence die in his throat. 

Shit, half a billion units? Who _is_ this kid?

Lacuna must be able to tell that the gears are spinning in James’ head, because he nods, shifting from one foot to another. “Uh-huh,” he grins, “Half a billion. Interested?”

_Is he?_

Half of him says _of fucking course!_ The more rational part of James is a little distrustful; he knows absolutely _nothing_ about this kid, apart from the fact that he can suck dick like a champ and is also either really, _really_ ballsy or just plain stupid.

Maybe both. 

In any case, he’s a little suspect. Half a billion units is no light matter, after all. James is sure that even in all his years as a Drifter, his crew has never made that much. So the prospect of all that cash is ridiculously alluring. 

_If I play along, I’ll probably get a good window to get the jump on him, though._

It’s unlikely the kid is gonna give him anything while he’s still tied up and harmless, after all, and James knows he’s a lot more effective at getting information when he’s got the ability to intimidate.

Decision made, James nods. 

“See, I knew you’d be smart about it,” Lacuna says, “If you play nice, maybe I’ll even cook you breakfast.”

James bites his tongue to stifle the retort threatening to slip out. He watches as Lacuna digs in his jacket pocket, procuring something small and sleek. It gleams, slightly metallic, in the light coming through the open doorway.

 _Oh, great_ , James thinks, _he’s got the fucking taser again._

And James has been through a lot, okay? But that taser fucking _hurt_ ; he’d rather not repeat the whole getting-shocked-unconcious-for-hours thing if he can avoid it.

Lacuna holds the taser in his right hand, his left picking at the ropes holding James’ wrists together. James watches his movements carefully, consideringly, noticing how the gun goes slack in his hand as he focuses on untying James’ wrists.

Obviously the kid is no professional; while he’s got enough confidence to make up for his inexperience, and the added bonus of having caught James off his guard, he’s _small._

Small and light enough that James could do some serious damage if he wanted to. It wouldn’t take much effort to throw the kid around, leave him bloody and bruised, bent and broken and _begging_.

 _Yeah, make him sorry for fuckin’ you over,_ his mind suggests, _c’mon, it’d be too easy._

For some unknown reason, though, his gut tells him not to, that there’s something else going on. And, well. James knows he won’t get any answers if the kid’s pulp on the floor.

James stays still, patiently waiting as the ropes slacken. He knows he’ll have a little window of opportunity once the ropes are fully undone, and he counts the seconds in his head, clenching his hands into fists slowly.

Lacuna tugs hard on a final knot, little fingers yanking it free. James feels the rope slide just slightly, slipping down his sore wrists, and then he strikes.

Lunging up, James punches Lacuna’s slim little wrist; it knocks the stun gun free of his grip, and Lacuna gasps, a cry tearing from his throat as James’ fist catches him across the jaw, head snapping to the side.

The taser goes clattering to the metal floor, skidding wildly, and then James kicks out, his foot slamming against the kid’s stomach.

That gets a pained yelp, and Lacuna goes flying backwards, hitting the ground with a brain-rattling crash. 

James is onto his feet in seconds, straddling the kid’s hips, one hand wrapping around his throat and pinning him flat, the other grabbing for the stun gun trapped under the edge of the dresser. Lacuna whines, squirming wildly as James holds the gun up to his forehead, finger teasing the trigger.

Lacuna’s holomask is cracked on the right side; James can just barely see one of his eyes, blown out to the whites in fear.

“ _Shit-_ get off me- ouch!- _fuck-_ ”

James squeezes his throat and gives him a good shake. Lacuna's voice dies out on a choked little cry, his inhale hitched and panicky as his head slams against the floor.

“ _Shut up_ ,” James hisses, “Mother _fucker_. You got ten seconds to tell me what’s going on before I fuckin' _shoot_ you.”

Lacuna swallows; his throat works under James’ fingers, pained and jerky. A weak moan ekes out when James squeezes a little more, and Lacuna shivers, his mouth falling open on a gasp.

James huffs frustratedly. “C’mon, _baby_ ,” he spits, “Ain’t got all day. Or at least _you_ don't.” 

Then James presses on the trigger, just slightly. The stun gun crackles loudly, blue sparks arcing through the metal and spraying from the prongs, a coiled anticipation of the burn humming underneath James’ index finger.

The sparks illuminate Lacuna’s face. He writhes in James’ grip, trying to kick his way free, and James presses him down harder into the floor to keep him in place, hefting the gun up, inches from his nose. 

James wants to _taunt_ the kid, scare him a little. His bruised ego urges him to do _more_ , to really make the kid regret ever fucking with him.

“Ten, nine, eight,” James bites out, each word getting harsher as Lacuna whines and gasps underneath him. “Seven, six, c’mon, kid, ain't got much left to go. And don't think I won't fry your brain cells out, either.”

Lacuna sobs, fruitlessly trying to wriggle free of James’ grasp. His fingers claw at James’ hand, utter terror swimming in the one eye that James can see.

“Five, four, three, _two-_ ”

“Please- _please_ ,” Lacuna wails, “ _Stop-_ you don’t wanna do that- stop!”

James lets go of the trigger. Lacuna lets out a panicked breath, before he chokes on a moan as James squeezes his throat and pulls him up.

“Oh yeah? And _why’s_ that?”

Lacuna swallows. “'Cause,” he mumbles, his voice cracking, “‘Cause- I- people are gonna die if you do-”

James snorts a laugh, rolling his eyes. “ _Sure_ , kid. Wasn’t born yesterday. Be more effective if you just offered to suck my dick again.”

“I’m- I’m _serious_ ,” Lacuna gasps, “I’ll explain, _I promise_ , just- get off me, _please-_ hurts-”

And, well. James is a Drifter; they’re not exactly known for being forgiving and tender. But the kid also looks and sounds like he's close to tears, all shaken-up and hurt, and a part of James feels _guilty_ , for some godforsaken reason.

_Christ, I’m getting soft._

He’s also confused. 

_People are gonna die;_ that’s not the sort of thing he hears often. Hostages tend to beg for mercy, or offer money or jewelry and the like in exchange for their life. So to hear _that_? It throws him for a complete loop. 

“Fine,” James sighs, “Alright.” He relaxes his grip, and Lacuna’s head thumps back against the floor. James gets to his feet, training the stun gun on Lacuna’s chest. “Up, kid. And don't try anything, or else I really _will_ shoot you.”

Lacuna rolls onto his knees, struggling to his feet and whimpering at the pain James knows for sure is wracking his slim frame. Considering how slim the kid is, James wouldn’t be surprised if Lacuna bruises up from his rough hands.

James reminds himself he doesn’t care.

_The kid fuckin’ tased you and stole your ship, moron! You’re supposed to be pissed!_

Once Lacuna’s on his feet, albeit unsteadily, James shoves the barrel of the stun gun in between his shoulder blades. Lacuna stumbles forwards with the force, nearly tripping over his boots before freezing suddenly when James bites out a _stop right there_.

“Okay,” James spits, “Stay there, right where I can see you. You’re gonna talk after I get dressed, and I’m gonna decide whether or not I should shoot you. Fuckin’ bitch, should knock you around for all of this.” 

James busies himself with putting on his shirt and groping distractedly for his jacket, passing the taser from hand to hand and watching as the kid rubs his sore neck, sniffling pathetically. He grabs his pants, trying to ignore the pained little whimper Lacuna lets out when he touches his jaw with shaky hands.

Then James’ stomach drops like a stone, because his gun isn't in the holster on his belt anymore.

_Oh, fuck._

James looks up slowly, a nauseous fear and anger bubbling in his guts.

The sleek black metal glimmers in the light, the barrel glinting up at James’ nose.

It's heavy; Lacuna has to hold it in both his hands to keep it steady, but his face is set hard and his fingers don't waver as he thumbs over the safety.

_How the fuck did I miss that? What the fuck? Christ, I’m a moron._

“Call me that again,” Lacuna says quietly, “And I'll fucking kill you.” 

James swallows. His gun is _powerful_ ; could easily strip most of the flesh off his face, if Lacuna so desires. And, considering that rule number one of any conflict is _don't piss off the guy holding the gun,_ James figures he might need to swallow his tongue before he ends up on Contraxia for reconstructive surgery.

He’d really, really prefer not to have his brains splattered all over the place.

“Drop the stun gun,” Lacuna murmurs, “Now. Hands up.”

The taser clatters to the metal floor as James releases it from his grip, turning his palms outwards and keeping them above his head.

Lacuna makes an _up_ motion with the gun. “Get dressed,” he says, “Then we’re gonna talk. And if you hit me again I swear to god I’ll shoot you in the dick.”

James believes him. 

Pulling on his pants and boots slowly, James’ eyes continually dart between the kid and the barrel of the gun- _and isn't that a familiar feeling,_ James thinks bitterly- before catching on the reddened skin of Lacuna’s neck.

James can just make out the darkening marks from his fingers wrapped under the kid’s jaw, already beginning to bruise. 

The pale skin of his collarbones is all scraped red under the dark-blue straps of his little tank, leather pants dusty from getting knocked to the ground. 

_Good._

Lacuna keeps the gun trained on him as he leads James into the cabin. “Sit,” he says quietly, motioning to one of the chairs around the main table. “Now.”

James lowers himself into one of the chairs slowly, distrustfully watching as the kid leans his hips up against the counter, crossing one foot over the other. 

And then he proceeds to stare. James blinks, uncomprehending.

“You gonna say anything?” James says, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, unless you’re trying for mental telepathy, you’re gonna have to actually open your mouth, kid.”

That gets a tired sigh. 

“Can I trust you,” Lacuna murmurs, “If I take off my holomask?”

James snorts a derisive laugh. “Yeah, after you fuckin’ tased me and tied me to my bed? After you took my ship on a _joyride_? Get _fucked_.”

Lacuna points the gun at his dick. “Don't fuckin’ push it,” he scowls. “Unless you wanna piss out of a tube for the rest of your life.”

A part of James, no matter how much he tries to deny it, gets a little hot. 

_Mmm, fiery and bratty, just how you like ‘em._

So maybe he's always had a weakness for pretty twinks with an attitude. Sue him.

James shakes his head, trying to clear away the thoughts clouding his brain like a heavy fog so he can focus on the issue at hand.

“You’re pretty convincing, kid,” James says, raising an eyebrow, “But c’mon. We both know you’re not gonna shoot me. Gotta say, I’m a little impressed at how fuckin’ ballsy you are.” 

To his surprise, Lacuna snorts a laugh before letting out a heavy sigh. “Thanks. Jury’s still out on that, though,” he says, thumb resting on the safety. “Could just ditch you and take your ship.”

James feels his heart lurch. The prospect of some kid careening through space and tearing up his baby by crashing through debris just makes his gut churn. _God, all those units down the drain..._

“Prefer for that not to happen,” James mumbles, trying to backpedal a little. “Look- what is this all about?”

“Making sure,” Lacuna says, pausing for emphasis, “That you're not gonna stab me in the back.”

James eyes him distrustfully. “I- fuck, kid, do you really need to do this? I mean, it’s a little too James Bond for me.”

Lacuna wrinkles his nose; _must not get the reference,_ James thinks. 

He finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that he could actually see Lacuna’s eyes properly, the little sliver of a pupil visible not enough to really reveal anything more than distrust and a strained worry.

“Yeah, I do,” Lacuna murmurs. He picks at a fingernail, and James notices his hands shake a little. “I’m not fucking around. Last chance: can I trust you?”

_Who is this kid?_

Why would he go to these lengths, all to make sure- sure of what? That James won’t backstab him? _And why_ , James thinks, _does it matter so much to him?_

What on Earth could he be running from? Why on Earth would he do something this risky- steal his fucking ship, tie him up- and now _this_? 

_Fuck_.

James swallows. “Fine. Promise you can trust me. Cross my heart and hope to die,” he says archly, “There. That enough, kid? Or do I gotta beg for forgiveness too?”

“Shut up,” Lacuna huffs, “Good enough. I’m keeping the gun on you, though.” 

Then he takes off the holomask, tucking it into his jacket pocket.

He’s shockingly pretty, all sharp grey eyes and thin lips and soft curls. James feels his throat click on an unsteady swallow, sudden images of last night flooding his mind on rapid-cycle.

_Those lips, wrapped around my cock-_

James blinks rapidly, trying in vain once again to focus.

Unfortunately, whatever dramatic reveal the kid was going for is soured by the fact that James doesn’t get it. It might be the fact that he’s still a little hungover, or the fact that he’s recently been shocked unconscious, or the fact that he's just plain exhausted.

Probably all three.

“Uh- so is there something I’m missing?” James asks, “Because, I mean, if I’m supposed to recognize you, or something, it’s not clicking.”

Lacuna rolls his eyes. “Okay, then,” he says, voice heavy with sarcasm, “Maybe this’ll jog your memory?”

Tapping on the holoscreen, Lacuna pulls up the broadcasts from a couple days ago, the projection shimmering in between them. James watches as he flicks back through the recording, before stopping on an image of the High Command of Navvi.

Then James freezes. 

_No way._

He looks back and forth between Lacuna’s face and the projection, and even though his face is drawn with worry and fatigue, it’s _unmistakable_.

“Holy fuck- _no fucking way._ ”

Lacuna- no, _Jason-_ smirks a little. “If you try to turn me in, I’ll kill you,” he murmurs, and James believes him wholeheartedly. “Get it now?”

James nods, utterly dumbstruck. Not only is the _High Command of Navvi_ , who’s currently got a _billion-unit_ warrant on his head, sitting in his _cabin_ after stealing his goddamn _ship_ , he also-

“Fucking _Christ_ ,” James blurts out, before his brain-to-mouth filter can catch up. “I fucked you. God, isn’t that treason or something? Fuck, I’m gonna get a life sentence or some shit.”

Jason snickers. “Doesn’t count if I’m on the run,” he laughs, “Besides, it was a pretty good fuck.”

James feels his cheeks heat slightly, because _holy fuck._

“I- so you’re not kidnapped,” James says dumbly. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Jason sighs. “Long story. Trust me, this isn’t my first choice by a long shot.”

“Figures. But I’ve got nothing but time, kid,” James says slowly, “Consider it payback for a really good fuckin’ blowjob.”

Jason laughs.

+

After making some more coffee and pouring James a fresh cup, Jason sits down and tells him everything, fiddling with the handle of his mug. 

James alternates between raising his eyebrows in shock and taking sips of coffee, just this side of too-hot that it sears his taste buds.

It takes a considerable chunk of time for Jason to fill him in; first about his parents, then about the plot of his advisors, and by the time he’s finishing with how his planet’s officials are in collusion with Tarvos to invade Amalthea, James is starting to feel really fucking _bad_ for the kid.

Even after the whole taser incident. He’s not heartless, after all, and this kid’s had enough shit thrown at him that James thinks he can let it go.

Begrudgingly.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jason nods. “That’s why I figured stealing a ship might’ve been my only ticket off Navvi, since revealing my face probably would've been a one-way trip to a dirt nap.”

“Yeah,” James sighs, “Fuck.” He scrubs his eyes tiredly, before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, shit. Why would they even go to all this effort, for what?”

“Don’t you think I’ve already asked myself that?” Jason says bitterly, his expression souring. “I don’t have a fucking clue. The only thing I’ve got to show for it is the fact that I’m not dead yet, I guess.”

James feels a twinge of sympathy. He’s not really sure what to say to that. “Where are we, right now?”

It’s a clumsy transition, but Jason seems grateful for it all the same. He glances over at the holoscreen, leaning out of his chair slightly. “Uh, roughly a thousand light-years from Navvi, en route to Vasar.”

“What?”

“I mean, that’s where I planned to go if I had to ditch you somehow,” Jason says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

James frowns, letting out a heavy sigh. “Fuck, Lars is gonna kill me. I’m guessing you disabled all the comms, huh?”

Jason winces and nods. “Yeah. Who’s Lars?”

“Captain of my crew.”

At that, Jason’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Really? I thought you were.”

“Nah,” James says, shaking his head, “A little more responsibility than I want. Anyways, I’ll have to fill ‘em in on what’s happened. You can help.”

Jason blinks, little hands pausing with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth, before he frowns. “Wait- fill them in? You're not gonna turn on me, right?”

“C'mon, kid, we're not traitors,” James grins, “Besides, if you promised some cash, well. Let’s just say we're gonna make sure we deliver.”

At that, James sees the tension bleed from Jason's shoulders, and he sags forwards a little, looking down at his mug. “Okay,” he says, “Then you gotta help me get to Hala.”

“Hala? Shit, that's far,” James hums, “Why Hala?”

“Got a friend out there. Your ship can handle it, right?” 

James shrugs. “Sure, I wouldn’t see why not,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “Have to pick up some supplies and shit first though. Think the nearest planet for that is Kepler-800.”

“That’s fine,” Jason nods, “I need to get some new clothes, anyways, considering this is all I have on me.”

“New clothes?”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Yes, new clothes,” he snarks, “Considering I had to make a break for it, I don’t exactly have a full wardrobe with me. And there’s no way I’ll fit any of your stuff. Take it as an excuse to get some new gear.”

“Alright,” James sighs, “Christ, you’re prissy.”

Jason sticks his tongue out at him.

James feels a laugh tear out of his throat, sudden and light. 

It's surprising how easily they can banter with each other; most people tend to cower whenever they're in the same proximity as a Drifter, and yet here's this kid, not only happy enough to go toe-to-toe with him but ballsy enough to threaten him with a gun.

_Huh._

“Okay, kid,” James says, “Guess if we're working together I better get you a proper gun. Think that one’s a little too heavy.”

Jason shrugs amicably. “I kinda like it,” he grins, “But yeah, it's a little hard to handle. Got anything better?”

At that, James smirks. He pulls himself up from the chair he's in and heads to the bio lock on the wall, scanning his palm and waiting for it to register. “Better? How's this for better?”

The biolock flashes green, and the blue seam along the wall glows bright blue before parting, a huge wall of guns and blasters revealing itself.

“Oh, _whoa-_ ”

“Alright, kid,” James grins, “C’mere. Let's get you something better.”

Jason sets his mug down and approaches him slowly, passing over the gun, and James takes it and racks it in one of the cybernetic mounts on the wall, watching as it clips in with a magnetic hum.

A holoprojection pops up beside it, displaying the status and diagnostics of the gun. James dismisses the report, pulling up the main menu.

Scanning over the array, James picks through all the firearms he's collected over the years, trying to consider what might work best. His gaze drifts over tiny little pistols and handguns to heavy, double-handed blasters, all of them battered to varying degrees from heavy-duty use. 

Then one catches his eye. _That’ll be good,_ James thinks, _kid shouldn't have too much difficulty with it, anyways._

Grabbing a slim, sleek cobalt blue gun from one of the mounts, James passes it over to Jason. The chamber glows neon orange, pulsating slightly.

“Think a Pleiades 800 might be good for you,” James says, “It's light, compact, and it's got enough firepower to do some damage.”

Jason takes it gingerly, turning it over and admiring the decorative neon lacing, rubbing his thumb over the sleek handle. “Sweet,” he grins, “What is it- photon beam?”

James nods. “Uh-huh, so keep the safety locked, kid. Don’t wanna see you accidentally torch yourself.”

“I’m not that stupid,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. He slots it carefully into his holster, readjusting his leather jacket. “Gonna reconnect the comms, now?”

“Yeah,” James scoffs, “No thanks to you, kid. Now c’mon, need you to help explain this shitshow.”

Jason giggles. “Yeah, ‘cause who's gonna believe some kid took out a Drifter with a stun gun without proof? Know I wouldn't.”

James snorts a laugh. “Shut up. Fuckin’ smartass.”

That gets him another tongue wag, the kid’s nose all scrunched-up before he laughs and follows James up the staircase into the flight deck.

+

“ _Where the fuck are you?”_

James winces. 

After he’d reconnected all the comms and retcon systems, with a little help from Jason who was more content to sit in the passenger-side chair and sip his coffee, James had then spent a good thirty minutes trying to find the signal from the Leper Messiah in order to boot up the interwebs.

Jason’s put his holomask back on, coffee now finished and the mug leaving a nice ring on James’ dash. He’s slouched in the chair, legs tossed over one of the armrests as he turns his gun over in his hands, admiring the neon glow.

James flaps a hand at his boots. “Get your mug off the dash before it fuckin’ stains.”

Jason snorts a laugh before obliging, setting the mug on the ground.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” Lars spits, “And where the _fuck_ are you? We’ve been waiting for _hours_ , James, I swear to god-”

Honestly? James wishes he hadn’t even bothered getting the comms back up.

The projection shimmers, and James sighs, internally rolling his eyes. Lars scowls at him, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with smudged eyeliner, painfully hungover. _It’d almost be amusing_ , James admits, _if he wasn’t getting chewed out_. 

Then James feels his stomach drop once he notices Cliff and Rob in the background. 

As embarrassing as it’s going to be to explain the whole ordeal to Lars, James kind of dreads the fact that Cliff’s never gonna let him live this down.

“Well?” Lars says impatiently, “You gonna fucking explain or what?”

James sighs. “It’s- it’s not my fault,” he manages, wincing as Lars’ nostrils flare. “Promise- seriously, look at the location of my ship.”

Lars pauses. He looks down at his holoscreen, before his eyebrows raise in surprise.

“What the fuck are you doing out there?”

“Wait a second, that's the kid from the bar,” Rob interrupts, “Told you, asshole!”

James feels his face flush. “Shut up, _fuck-_ ”

“What’s with the broken holomask?” Cliff laughs, leaning in so his face is in the frame. “Got a little too rough last night?”

James winces. “Yeah, you could say that,” he mumbles, “I- look-” 

“ _For helvede_ , shut _up_ ,” Lars grinds out, “Christ.” He takes a moment, resting his forehead against his hand as Cliff and Rob snicker in the background. “James, can you just fucking explain and save me the headache?”

“Well,” James starts apprehensively, “Might be easier to show you.”

Jason motions at his holomask, and James nods, watching as Jason takes it off, folding it up carefully and tucking it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“No _fucking_ way-”

“Holy shit-”

“What, the _fuck_ ,” Lars says, voice incredulous, “Is the High Command of Navvi doing _sitting in your ship_?”

Jason grins. “I might’ve stolen his ship. Sorry about that.” 

“Oh my god,” Rob laughs, “Dude! I can’t believe you fucked-”

“ _Stop_ , fuck,” James bites out, his cheeks burning as Jason giggles. At this point, he’d be happy enough to throw himself into one of those tar pits on Xanthar. “Christ, let’s just- not go there, right now.”

Cliff chokes around his cigarette. “Jesus fuck,” he snickers, “Well, now what?”

James picks at a fingernail. “Gonna take him out to Hala.”

“What about the warrant?” Lars says, “We’re not jeopardizing pay-”

“If you help me,” Jason interrupts, “I’ll reward you. Half a billion units for you and your crew, half a billion for James. I just need to get out to Hala first.”

James can just about hear the _cha-ching!_ noise in Lars’ mind.

Lars hums, before pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Fine, kid,” he sighs, “We can’t afford to sink months into this trip, though.”

“Then pick up jobs along the way,” James says, “Besides, I’ll be faster on my own. We’ll meet up with you in a couple weeks or so in sector B-12, I’ve gotta get some supplies and shit first.”

“Sure, fuck,” Lars groans, “Christ, don’t ever do this again. _Fuck_.”

Then he hangs up, the call disconnecting with a little _ping_!

“They seem like fun,” Jason grins.

“Fuck,” James sighs, “ _Fuck_. I’m gonna plot our course for Kepler-800. And get your fuckin’ boots off my dash!”

Jason’s laugh rings in his ears as James tries to focus on the display, dialing in the commands to change their course.

_What the fuck have I gotten myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
